


Souls to Hear

by Albatros_assoiffe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, F/M, Pennytree, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Book 5 - A Dance with Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 40,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albatros_assoiffe/pseuds/Albatros_assoiffe
Summary: “Brienne, you are a bad liar.  Tell me the truth.”The truth. That she failed him. Failed Lady Catelyn. Failed Renly. That her honor was slipping out of her, like the blood Stoneheart thirsted for, pooling out of Jaime’s severed neck. Like the tears she could no longer contain. Brienne turned away from Jaime and wiped them away, embarrassed, but they did not stop.“Brienne, what happened? Tell me.”Picks up Jaime and Brienne's story immediately after Jaime's chapter in ADWD.





	1. Pennytree

“Brienne, you are a bad liar. Tell me the truth.”

The truth.

That she failed him. Failed Lady Catelyn. Failed Renly. That her honor was slipping out of her, like the blood Stoneheart thirsted for, pooling out of Jaime’s severed neck. Like the tears she could no longer contain. Brienne turned away from Jaime and wiped them away, embarrassed, but they did not stop.

“Brienne, what happened? Tell me.”

She told him. Starting with the hanged men she passed with Pod and Hyle and Septon Meribald, she told him of the orphan inn, the boy who looked like Renly, the fight with Rorge and Biter, the tall girl, the red priest, the latest man to become the Hound, and then . . . and then . . . . The treacherous tears had finally stopped as she told her story, but they returned, bringing sobs with them this time, wracking her broken bones and dignity. Miserably she choked them down and forced her breath to steady. Stuttering like Podrick, her voice a whisper, she stared at the ground and told him of Lady Catelyn the Stoneheart and her justice.

Jaime was standing very close to her now, his ear in front of her lips so he could hear.

“Someone cut me down. I grabbed the boy and lifted him and they cut him down too.” She paused again, clenching her jaw and her fists as the tears returned. Why would they not stop? She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away again. She could not look at Jaime. Her chest began to heave again with stifled sobs. Speak, she thought. You cannot sob and speak at the same time.

“And gave you Oathkeeper. And sent you here to collect my head.”

“Yes.”

“And? Finish your story, Brienne. How does it end?” His breath caressed her neck where the noose had bitten her.

“I would not kill you, ser.”

“You would lie to me so I would be alone with you.”

“The boy lives only so long as the outlaws think I will kill you. Two of them followed me here, and will be watching the camp.”

“You would lead me to my death, and let someone else do the killing.”

_No._ _What was she doing, then?_ “I would not stand by while they killed you, ser.”

“So you mean to die with me? Would your squire die with us, too?”

“I will tell my escort you demanded a trial, as is your right, and I agreed to bring you before Lady Catelyn. They brought me to her for judgment. They will not refuse you.”

He laughed. “Lady Catelyn’s revenant will judge me guilty, as she judged you, only quicker.”

“A trial by combat,” Brienne persisted.

“Why would she permit that?”

“She would think you would lose.”

“I would lose.”

“You would defeat me. I am her sworn sword. She would let me champion her, so she could see me slay you as she asked.”

“You want me to kill you, wench?” asked Jaime.

“I would be dead already but for Podrick’s sake. I promised your life for his. If you kill me, both of you walk free. My death is only delayed a little.”

Jaime was even more angry now, she could tell. Daring to look at him, she turned her head. Her cheek touched his, and she jerked away at the unexpected touch. His eyes met hers, burning hotter than her face.

“You swore to find and protect Sansa Stark, wench,” He said angrily, “not to die foolishly. You would be an oathbreaker, like me?”

“The oath is yours, Jaime. I swore to protect you so you could keep it. You can keep it still, as long as you live.”

“Leave the boy behind and seek Sansa Stark without him. He’s probably dead already. I can give you another squire and see that you’re well provisioned.”

“I will not leave the boy to die. Not if there’s a chance he lives. He’s an innocent.”

“Robb Stark would not exchange me for his sisters, yet you would trade us both for an orphan boy you’ve only known for a few weeks?”

“I said I would not kill you.”

“I’d die all the same. I don’t trust these outlaws. Do you?”

No, Brienne thought. It was my time to die, and I did not. What am I now? A wight, like Lady Catelyn? A dead thing with no honor and no mercy? She said nothing.

Jaime glared at her. Warmth rushed again to her face as his stare drifted downward, inspecting her. “Where else are you wounded, my lady?”

“My broken arm, some ribs. . . I was fevered for a time. I think the bones have started to heal.”

Jaime looked skeptical. “How much have you eaten?”

“Enough.” But her stomach growled treacherously in response.

“You’re starving. No wonder you can’t think straight. Your plan is hopeless, you know. How much have you slept?”

“I don’t need much sleep.”

He snorted at that and left the room. Brienne closed her eyes, swaying slightly. It’s my heart that’s tired and wounded and hungry, she thought. The rest of her . . . was also hurt and hungry, she admitted, but not as much. Jaime returned in a few minutes with a bedroll and a sack. He dropped the bedroll on the floor and the sack on the table. Sitting down on the bench, he pulled a dried apple out of the sack and handed it to her. She sat next to him while he pulled more food out of the sack and started awkwardly tearing bread and cutting cheese with one hand and a stump. Chewing slowly on the apple, she accepted the bread and cheese he handed her.

“You’ll have to cut the mutton yourself,” he said, or you’ll have sliced Lannister as a midnight snack. Eat as much as you want, and take the bed.” Jaime laid out the bedroll in front of the door and was asleep before Brienne had finished eating.


	2. Pennytree, continued

Jaime watched her sleep.

She slept badly, on account of her broken bones.

The camp would wake soon, but Jaime hoped Brienne would sleep through the noise. Maybe she’d sleep through the day and regain some strength. He doubted it. Jaime leaned against the wall, Oathkeeper unsheathed in his hand. He would kill her. Someone else would strike the blow, but it was he who had bid her keep his oath and sent her to her doom. He seemed to be making a habit of killing people he . . . didn’t want to die.

He hoped her bones would make it home to Tarth. Would anyone mourn her, he wondered? She may not lay in state on her Sapphire Isle, but he could stand vigil for her now. Would Tommen mourn him? Did Tommen mourn Tyrion? Jaime had not thought to talk to his son until he had retched up his breakfast in front of Tywin’s rotting corpse. Did he know how his grandfather died? Who did he talk to? Not Cersei. Margaery? _What a wretched father I am_. A good thing Kevan would be regent to look after Tommen, Jaime thought, hopefully better than he had looked after Lancel. How well was Brienne looking after this boy Podrick, he wondered? _She tries her best_. Jaime felt ashamed.

His vigil did not last long. Brienne woke and stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning her eyes on Jaime. The sadness in them stopped his breath. Eyes like that should never look so mournful, he thought. A man could drown in those eyes. He sheathed Oathkeeper and leaned it against the wall.

“Forgive me, my lady, for borrowing your sword.”

She frowned a little in reply. Puzzlement replaced the sadness in her eyes. _Thank the gods. Anything was better than that._

They broke their fast from the same sack of provisions he had brought the night before.

“I had hoped to capture your two minders last night, but no such luck. How many are in you escort? Are there more outlaws about that you know of? Where?”

“I left the caves with four of them. Two are somewhere nearby, and two more we left encamped a day’s ride from here. The Hound . . . The man who wears the Hound’s helm is one of them.”

“So that wasn’t a lie. Are you sure your squire isn’t Sansa Stark in disguise? That would make you an honest woman.”

“I think Lady Sansa may be in the Vale.”

“Do you have a reason, or is that a guess?”

“A guess,” she admitted.

Jaime sighed. “How far to this cave?”

“Another day’s ride from the encampment. A little less.”

Jaime considered that. “Could you find the way by yourself?”

“No. I was hooded for half the day. But . . .” She thought for a moment. “We weren’t hooded when they strung us up just outside the entrance to the cave. I remember what it looks like. I can’t guide you to the place, but I think I could point it out if we came across it.”

“That’s too bad,” Jaime replied, though he had expected as much. “If I knew where it was, we could attack it in force. Your squire’s as like to survive a Lannister raid as a Tarth rescue mission.”

Brienne did not argue. _Even she knows it’s hopeless._

“How did you end up with traveling companions, anyway. Not the outlaws, the others?”

“The boy was your brother’s squire. Podrick Payne. A poor relative of Ser Ilyn. He followed me from King’s Landing when he heard I was looking for Lady Sansa. He might remember something useful one day, and he knows what she looks like. I’ve been teaching him to fight.”

“And the others?”

“Septon Meribald was my guide. A good man.”

“And Ser Hyle?”

“Ser Hyle Hunt. One of Randall Tarly’s men. Formerly Randall Tarly’s man. He. . . He wishes to marry me so he can die a rich man.”

“Of a dagger to his cock, on your wedding night?”

“He seems to think it worth the risk.”

“You’ve accepted him?”

“No!”

Her blushes amused him. A jape was on the tip of his tongue, but Jaime swallowed it along with his piece of apple. Then he wiped away his smile, serious again.

“Describe these caves, my lady, as well as you can.”

When they had finished, Jaime stepped out of the cottage to give Addam Marbrand his orders and leave Brienne some privacy. He returned with their horses and the things they would need. Brienne’s pain was evident, despite her impassive face, but he was glad to see she had no difficulty mounting up with one arm. What a sorry pair we make, Jaime thought, with only two good arms between us. At least it wasn’t her sword arm that was broken. That would have made them an even sorrier pair. They trotted out of Pennytree while Jaime's host was breaking camp.


	3. A Day's Ride

After their midday meal, Brienne drew the knife Jaime had given her that morning and held it to his throat. He surrendered without a struggle. The knife went back in her boot and the rope went around his chest.

Brienne had a sailor’s knowledge of useful knots, Jaime discovered. She cut the rope they had brought with them, tying the pieces backtogether in a stout knot. She placed the knot in the center of his back and wrapped the remaining rope in a few arrangements about his chest and arms before she was satisfied. Jaime felt like a horse whose harness was being adjusted for a new rider. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. She was tying his elbows well back, as was appropriate since his hands were not being bound. That annoyed him. _Enjoying having me at your mercy, wench?_ The fingers of her left hand worked slowly and deliberately. Their movements caused pain in her splinted arm, Jaime realized, and she needed both hands to tie him. _Is everything she does painful?_ he wondered, wishing it were not so.

Jaime scanned the horizon in the direction they had come. A gray sky hinted of snow. If they were being watched, their watchers were well hidden, except for a raven in the tree they rested under, hopping from limb to limb, cocking its head to look at them.

“You’re disappointing that bird by not hanging me,” Jaime japed. “He seems to think me a choice morsel.”

Brienne frowned, ignoring the bird.

“What are you doing, Brienne?”

“Look here . . .” she replied. Brienne took his hand in hers and curled his fingers behind the several wraps of rope around his chest. “Feel that doubled line behind the others? Pull it out, and keep pulling.” Jaime found it and pulled. A length of rope came out, but he was still bound tight. “Keep pulling.” Jaime pulled again as far as he could extend his hand, and felt rope tugging and traveling along his back. He pulled twice more, and his bonds unraveled completely and fell at his feet. He looked up at Brienne.

“I thought . . . Just in case . . . It might be useful for you to be able to free yourself. Lady Catelyn is . . . not herself, after all. And . . . who knows what might happen?”

Jaime smiled as he had not smiled in a long time. He picked up the rope and handed it back to her. She tied him again, belted his sword onto her hip opposite Oathkeeper, tied his horse’s bridle to her saddle, and they were on their way.

They arrived as the sun was setting, following a tiny stream until they found a big man in a worn yellow cloak, a one-eyed man, and two horses hidden in a copse of trees. A thin tendril of smoke had helped lead them to the camp, but the outlaws had already put the fire out. The smaller man was standing on the ashes to warm his feet.

“You were supposed to bring the Kingslayer’s head,” said the Hound, “not the rest of him.”

“Lady Stark will enjoy the pleasure of my company so much more with my body attached,” said Jaime, “She’ll need some cheering up if she spends all her time with the likes of you.”

“Ser Jaime demanded a trial,” Brienne replied, “as is his right. He’ll answer for his crimes before Lady Stark.”

“He can answer for his crimes right now,” said the one-eyed man.

“That’s not for you to say,” Brienne countered, stepping between them and Jaime. “It’s Lady Stark’s justice, not yours.”

“I’ve done plenty of m’lady’s justice. I’ll do this, too, whore.”

“Lady Stark has unfinished business with Ser Jaime. This one’s for her, not you.”

The Hound shouldered past Brienne and grabbed Jaime by his bonds, shaking him like a dog shakes a rat, and throwing him against a tree. Brienne’s knotwork did not betray them, holding fast. “Do you want your leash, dog?” asked Jaime. “Untie me, and I’ll wrap it around your thick neck. Lady Brienne seems to have gotten the two of us confused.”

The Hound raised his fist, and Jaime was ready to dance away from it, but Brienne grabbed the Hound’s arm. “He’s for Lady Stark,” she said. The big man pulled away from her grasp, raising his fist again. It came down on Brienne’s injured cheek, and Jaime charged, slamming his shoulder into the Hound’s ribs, knocking him off his feet and going down with him. The Hound regained his feet while Jaime was still rolling in the dirt, getting to his knees. Brienne stood between them again, her hand on her sword hilt. The one-eyed man had drawn his sword. Jaime stayed on his knees. If he stood now, there would be a fight, and Brienne did not want that.

“I said, this one’s for Lady Stark,” she repeated stubbornly.

 _Still my protector_ , Jaime thought. She defends me with her sword, her words, even with her body.

The Hound laughed. “Fine. The rest of us will enjoy watching him grovel, even if m’lady doesn’t. The end’ll be the same, though. Might be I’ll get to hang you again. Now hand over those swords.”

Brienne unbuckled the sword belts and let them drop. The Hound grabbed Brienne roughly by her broken arm and held her while the other man bound her wrists. She hissed in pain but didn’t fight or speak. Jaime itched to kill the man, but it would defeat their purpose. _Soon_ , he thought, _I’ll get to kill him soon._ Sooner if he had to, her squire be damned.

The Hound threw Brienne to the ground at Jaime’s knees.

“You can spend your last night in this world with your whore, Kingslayer. We don’t want your leavings.”

Jaime made a fist, flexing in his bonds. _What gave them that idea?_ The sword? Men don’t pay whores with Valyrian steel. The small knife hidden next to Jaime’s cock would fit so well in the big man’s eye. He could match his friend before he died.

Brienne’s face was impassive, her walls as thick as ever. She did not look at him. These aren’t the Bloody Mummers, at least, he thought, and there are only two of them, for now. He lay down next to Brienne. She turned away from him, hissing in pain, then settled her ribs slowly and lay still. Stubborn wench, Jaime thought. It would hurt less if she lay on her back. Her broad back was a curtain wall, her hips a higher one. _I can hide behind walls, too_. Jaime curled up behind her, his hip against hers, his hand in the small of her back, his forehead against her shoulder. She tensed but did not move. Jaime waited for her to crack his skull with her thicker one. The blow did not come. Neither did she relax. _This will not do_. Jaime got to his knees and stepped over Brienne, bending awkwardly so his cloak dragged over her back and covered her as he moved to her other side. He lay down facing her. Her eyes were open, silent tears watering her cheeks.

“Brienne,” he said. “I would not hurt you.”

“I know, Jaime . . . Thank you for the cloak.”

“It’s going to be a cold night.” _It may be our last night_. He scooted closer to her, taking her good hand in his. “Their words are not even wind, my lady. Don’t let them cut you.” Brienne had no words, only looked at him, wet eyes huge in front of his face.” _These eyes pierce me deeper than the winter wind_ , he thought, _deeper than a sword_. He rested his head on the cold ground, again touching her with his forehead. A moment passed. Brienne shifted. This time she did not turn away. Her ear touched his and she hid her face in his shoulder. He closed his fingers tighter against hers, and she squeezed his in return. Jaime lay awake as Brienne’s tears fell on his neck, remembering. Brienne climbing and running along the Trident, dropping a boulder on Robin Ryger and his archers, dripping wet as he helped her back into the skiff. Her tears trickled up his neck. Laying next to her bound to a tree, whispering, as scum of the earth argued how they would rape her. Trickles formed a stream. Brienne helping him out of the bath in Harrenhall. Roose Bolton telling Brienne Jaime was going to Kings Landing without her. The stream pooled behind his earlobe. The Bloody Maester chuckling about Brienne’s maidenhead. Brienne fighting the bear with a tourney sword. Vargo Hoat’s bloody ear. The pool spilled onto his cheek. Eyes full of hurt in the yard before the Red Keep. Brienne standing awkwardly in White Sword Tower in a pretty blue dress made for her. Jaime remembered Brienne naked, bathed in the light of her sword beneath Casterly Rock. In his place. In his darkness. Brienne’s tears kissed his lips, and he drank them.


	4. The Second Day

They had not been killed in their sleep, at least.

Jaime woke at dawn, his head tucked against Brienne’s shivering chest. His hand was warm in hers, sheltered by their bodies and his cloak. Most of the rest of him was cold and wet. His exposed ear burned with cold. Snow fell onto Brienne’s breasts when he moved his head, melting into her soaked jerkin. He heard the outlaws moving about, boots crunching in the new fallen snow. Marbrand’s riders would have no trouble tracking them today, so long as it didn’t start snowing again.

Someone kicked him in the back. “Get up, Kingslayer. You’ll never get your money’s worth from that.”

Brienne rolled away from him so fast his cloak fluttered in her wake. Crisp air replaced her warmth. Jaime got to his feet and looked around. The outlaws were already packed and ready to ride. _Two outlaws._ _If the gods were good,_ _Marbrand had caught the others._ He and Brienne would get no morning meal. He guessed she had not eaten on the journey to Pennytree.

Both outlaws carried two swords. The one-eyed man had belted Jaime’s sword belt atop his own, while the Hound wore Oathkeeper. In the dog’s head helm and yellow cloak, the big angry man played the Hound well, Jaime admitted. He wondered what happened to Sandor Clegane.

“You look very Lannister this morning,” Jaime said, smiling.

“You’ll look very dead tonight,” retorted the Hound.

At midday, the Hound hooded Brienne, while the one-eyed man gave Jaime a malicious smile. _Dead man_ , said the smile to Jaime. _Brienne might live, then. Did Stoneheart mean to keep her bargain?_ Jaime wondered. Later, they dismounted and gave their horses to a skinny girl, walking the last few miles to the cave as snow began to fall. The entrance was so well hidden Jaime didn’t notice it until he was walking inside. The Hound cursed when the guard told him his missing companions had not returned. Jaime almost smirked at that, but the smug feeling evaporated as he watched the falling snow cover their tracks and steadily pile up in front of the cave mouth.

“The Blackfish is here, though. Gendry brought him yesterday,” continued the guard.

_Now that was interesting_ , Jaime thought.

“Stirred the pot, he has. Been arguing with m’lady. Wants to take her to the Vale to keep an eye on the young lord there. M’lady wants to stay here an’ hang every last Frey, an’ find her daughters.”

“Her daughters are dead,” said the one-eyed man, “but I’m for hunting Freys. And Lannisters.” He held Jaime’s cloak like reins and clicked his tongue as if to a plow horse. “Go on, lion,” he urged. Jaime did as he was bid, leading the way. It was a twisty stony path, as Brienne had said. They carried no torch and were soon enveloped in blackness. Jaime’s captor let him walk into the wall at every turn, laughing. Jaime heard quick footsteps and felt a breeze as someone ran past him, then another, then several more. _Those are children_ , Jaime realized. His unseen fingers found the doubled rope hidden at his chest. When he walked into the next wall, Jaime pulled the rope in three long strokes while the man behind him stopped and clicked his tongue. “Giddap, lion,” he taunted, “Afraid of the dark? You should be.” Someone walked into the one-eyed man, pushing him into Jaime. The Hound cursed. Arms freed, Jaime pulled the knife from his breeches, turned around and stabbed the one-eyed man in the belly, wrapped his maimed arm around his neck, and stabbed him in the throat before he could cry out. Warm blood gushed onto Jaime’s chest and he dropped the man against the tunnel wall. Brienne and the Hound had fallen to the ground, struggling. He warily circled to where he thought their heads were.

“Brienne, where are you?” he called in a loud whisper.

Brienne’s voice was muffled underneath the leather hood. The Hound’s grunts were muffled by Brienne, he thought. Someone was flailing at the other. Jaime put the bloody knife between his teeth and was groping blindly with his good hand when a dim light illuminated the fighters. Knife in hand, Jaime whirled to face a hard-looking woman holding a taper and leading several children clinging to each other’s hands. She scarce seemed to notice the bodies on the ground, and kept her eyes on Jaime’s knife as she continued up the passage with the children.

Brienne was straddling the Hound, smothering him, grinding her knees and head into the ground while he writhed and bucked beneath her. He stopped flailing and circled his arms around her ribs, squeezing with all his might. Brienne gasped and growled in pain, kicking in the vicinity of the man’s testicles. Jaime took advantage of the fading candlelight to stab the Hound in the arm. A fist flew up at his head, well off target. Jaime pulled the blade out and tried to reach the man’s throat, but Brienne’s arms were in the way. In darkness again, Jaime plunged the knife back into the Hound’s bicep and worked his way toward his waist, his unfeeling hand running down Brienne’s back, his left feeling for a sword. The Hound grabbed Jaime’s hair but couldn’t hold on to the short locks. Jaime found a sword hilt behind Brienne’s ankle. She kicked his hand when he tried to draw it.

“It’s me, wench, I need a sword!” She let him have it. Jaime felt his way back up the struggling bodies and slid the sword beneath Brienne, guiding it under his gloved golden hand so it wouldn’t cut her. He found the triangle between the Hound’s collarbone and shoulder blade, and drove the sword into his heart. Blood burbled. The Hound stilled. _Tyrion would like to die with his head buried between a woman’s breasts_ , Jaime thought absurdly. _Not this woman’s, though_. Jaime pulled the hood off Brienne’s head as she sat up, still straddling the Hound. He pulled his knife out and held it still while she sliced her bonds across the blade, then wiped the knife on his white cloak and sheathed it back in its hiding place. Brienne stripped her sword belt off the Hound and buckled Oathkeeper about her waist before helping Jaime with his.

They flattened themselves against the wall. More footsteps went by. Brienne held onto his sleeve and led the way down the passage, her other hand on the wall. They stopped when they saw light seeping around a corner, letting their eyes adjust. Other things seeped around the corner, too: Raised voices and the clash of steel. Smoke. Women and children. A wounded man. Jaime had left his glittering scale and plate behind in favor of a coat of mail, but his white wool seemed to glow against the darkness. No one stopped to attack the bright stranger or the big ugly maid. Jaime already had his sword in hand. Brienne drew Oathkeeper and they advanced into the cavern.


	5. The Hollow Hill

A fire lay dying in the fire pit, bleeding plumes of smoke. A few torches danced to the music of battle, twirling gauzy skirts of light across the ground. Between them, darkness fell heavy as snow. Slashing blades glinted through a fog of smoke and soot.

Brienne kept hold of Jaime’s sleeve as she picked her way through the cavern, hiding them in pockets of smoke and darkness. The few outlaws who molested them were dispatched without much trouble. She stopped beside a young woman treating a man’s wounds by the feeble light of a candle.

“Where is Podrick, Jeyne?” she asked, “The boy who was with me? Can you take me to him?” Long Jeyne looked wearily at Brienne and Jaime. The wounded man’s eyes fluttered, stared blankly, closed. Jeyne nodded silently, finished binding his wound, and rose. She walked quickly through the chaos, candle in hand, not looking to see if they were behind her until she was in one of the passageways exiting the cavern. She led them to a small cave where Podrick Payne and Hyle Hunt were bound hand and foot.

Brienne cut Podrick free and the boy scrambled to his feet. Hunt held his hands up to be freed. Brienne ignored him and turned to leave.

“Brienne! Forgotten me already?” Hyle called after her.

Brienne turned to face him. “No, Hyle. I’ll never forget you.”

They left him.

The main cavern was illuminated by burning sleeping pallets and debris when they returned. It was harder to breathe than when they had left. Jaime could not tell which dark void led to the surface. He saw the Blackfish, bloody and swaying, cornered between a fire and enemies and surrounded by slain men. Jeyne left them to help a young outlaw struggling to his feet using his sword and shield as crutches. To his dismay, Brienne rushed to help her. Jaime and Podrick rushed after her. Outlaws rushed at them, the Maid of Tarth and the Kingsguard knight no longer hidden in the dark.

“There’s no time for this, Brienne!” he yelled, raising his sword to meet another. The young outlaw was leaning on Jeyne and his sword now. Podrick snatched up his shield while Brienne fought an older outlaw. _Gods! The wench was risking their lives for Renly’s ghost?!_ Young Renly swung his sword wildly and fell, dragging Jeyne with him. She lurched forward. Brienne slammed her opponent backward. Oathkeeper plunged deep into his belly and came out Long Jeyne’s back. Both women’s eyes went wide as they met over the man’s shoulder. Brienne pulled Oathkeeper out, turning quickly to cut the man Young Renly had missed. Jeyne and the gutted outlaw fell to the ground. Their attackers dealt with, Brienne knelt over Jeyne. Blood was pouring out of the girl's belly and accusation out of her eyes. Brienne’s face twisted in anguish and guilt as she watched Jeyne die.

“Brienne, we need to go,” urged Jaime, “before we suffocate.” They looked to be the last to leave the cavern. He did not see the Blackfish, and the others were running or staggering for the exits. Jaime dropped his sword, shoved Jeyne’s snuffed candle inside the bag she carried, took it off her and put it over his own shoulder. He picked up his sword and put his shoulder under Young Renly’s. The smith gave Jaime a murderous scowl, but he put his arm around Jaime’s shoulders and let himself be hauled up.

“Which exit?” Jaime asked Brienne.

“The way we came in is blocked.”

“Which way, Smith?”

“Over there,” Young Renly indicated. Podrick had found a torch somewhere and lit the way, still holding the shield. Jaime felt Brienne’s splinted arm against his maimed one. She had taken the smith’s other side. Renly’s bastard nephew hanging off their shoulders, they followed Podrick out of the cavern.


	6. The Watery Grave

The passage soon became too narrow to walk three abreast.

“I have the boy,” Jaime said. Brienne let him go. She sheathed Oathkeeper and took the torch from Podrick, giving him her dagger. The torch cast its light a few feet farther from its new height. The air cleared. It was cool and damp, acrid smells of fire and blood giving way to that of earth.

“We’re going deeper underground, Gendry,” said Brienne.

“It goes down before it goes back up,” he replied.

The way turned and split, and split again, and turned, and split into three, and turned again. They passed dark entrances to other passageways, their torch dimming. _Young Renly could be leading us into a trap_ , Jaime thought. The way was still going down when it split a fourth time, and Gendry did not know which path to take. There was no forge in the hollow hill, he said, so he had spent little time here, and had only been this way once before, with others to guide him.

“We should go back and wait near the great cavern,” Brienne said, “When the fires die down, we can leave the way we came.”

 _We should have stopped to catch our breath when the air first cleared_ , regretted Jaime, _and questioned this boy I am carrying_. It was easier to act than to think, and his success at fighting had made him overconfident. The Hound and the one-eyed man had struck him as hardened fighters, but he and Brienne had defeated them with guile. Most of the other outlaws had been little more than well-armed peasants, and none of them fought like knights or sellswords. _Were their best fighters somewhere else? Or had they killed each other in the cavern?_

They retraced their steps. Jaime stopped to sheath his sword just before the torch went out, and grabbed hold of the back of Brienne’s swordbelt. He could feel Podrick behind him holding the folds of his cloak. The sound of Brienne’s hand rubbing along the wall led their way.

“My lady? Ser? We’re going downhill again,” Podrick observed after a while.

“And we should have passed a split in the passage by now,” added Jaime.

“Come here, Podrick,” Brienne called. The boy slung the shield over his back and held Brienne’s sleeve so that each of them was running a hand along one side of the tunnel. They retraced their steps again and came to a fork.

“I’m not sure which way to go,” said Brienne.

 _Had they taken one wrong turn, or two?_ Jaime thought of the squires who had disappeared in the tunnels beneath the Tower of the Hand. They made a best guess and continued on. When the passage made a sharp turn, Brienne stopped abruptly and turned around, bumping into him.

“Go back!” she said, too loudly. “Go back! Quickly!”

“How many?” asked Jaime, as he swung Gendry around.

“A lot.”

Jaime couldn’t go quickly supporting Gendry. Torchlight and angry voices filled the passage. Jaime felt Brienne turn as the outlaws closed. He dropped the smith and joined her, shoving Podrick behind them. If these were as poorly skilled as their brothers, they had a chance to defeat them two by two in the narrow passage. Behind them, Gendry was dragging himself away with his muscular arms, pulling himself up the passage on his belly almost as quickly as Jaime had been carrying him.

Oathkeeper built a steel fence in front of them. With Brienne’s help, Jaime held his own, retreating shoulder to shoulder with her. A passageway opened on Jaime’s right. His foe tried to slip into it and around him. Jaime blocked him by stepping halfway into the dark maw. Little Podrick stepped into the gap with his shield and dagger. Brienne stopped giving ground. His weak side shielded by the wall, Jaime teamed with Podrick against his foe. The outlaw fell, bleeding in the bowels from Podrick’s dagger. He was replaced by the man behind him, who . . . disarmed Jaime.

Podrick stabbed, but fell short. The man’s sword crashed down on the scrawny boy’s shield. Pod staggered. Jaime grabbed the man with both arms, pulling him into the side tunnel, slamming him against the wall. The outlaw’s sword nipped at Jaime’s shins like an angry little dog. Jaime grasped the hand that wielded it. They fought with knees and nails and teeth and fists along the blind passage. Legs locked. Heads slammed. Skin broke. An ankle twisted. Bodies fell . . . and fell through empty air where earth should have been.

Water knocked the wind out of the outlaw, who took the brunt of the impact. Jaime snatched a breath and pushed him away as both of them sank under the weight of their mail. His feet touched something hard. He pushed against it, but the footing broke apart. Jaime sank knee deep into a pile of loose sticks and stones. Feet on the sandy bottom, he squatted deep and leapt, kicking hard . . . and sank. _I’m going to die_ , he thought. Jaime fumbled to unbuckle his sword belt so he could shed his hauberk.

Light pierced the darkness, barely illuminating the bones and rusted armor Jaime had taken for sticks and stones. Someone grabbed the back of his belt and threw him upwards. Jaime kicked. He tipped his face to just break the surface and gasped before sinking again. Brienne’s hair was spread in a golden halo around her bandaged homely face. This absurd mermaid caught Jaime’s hand and held it. She walked along the bottom in long, slow strides, holding a torch high above her head, burning above the water. Jaime walked with her. His lungs were about to burst when his nose and mouth finally broke the surface. Podrick was swimming next to Brienne. The boy wore no mail, and had managed to keep his shield with him.

“Go make us a fire, Podrick,” Brienne told him.

The boy splashed for the shore. They were in a large cavern, wading onto a narrow triangular beach. An underground lake took up the rest of the cavern. The walls nearest the pit through which they fell were sheer rock. It was too dark to see the opposite end of the lake, but it seemed to extend a long way, a great dark watery tomb. Unfortunate souls who fell into this place had to swim for the small beach or follow the wall around to reach it before they drowned or froze to death. A few had succeeded. Jaime could see their bones and rotted clothing in the grottos behind the beachhead. One of them had died at the water’s edge. Driftwood had accumulated near the entrance to the cave at the wide end of the beach, where a stream trickled over steps in the rock and made a tiny pool before flowing over the sand into the lake. Podrick gathered kindling and wood into a pile on the beach.

“Move this into one of those grottos,” Jaime said, “We’ll be warmer there.”

Podrick dutifully moved the firewood. Brienne cleared a fire pit and lit the campfire with her torch. While they worked, Jaime stripped off his mail and sodden clothes, down to his skin.

“You had better take your clothes off, before you freeze to death,” he told them.

Brienne turned red, but followed his advice, stripping to her smallclothes, and Podrick followed Jaime’s example. Jaime planted a stick in the ground close to the fire and dangled his smallclothes over the end to dry. _Her blushes are very sweet, indeed_. The bandage on Brienne’s face was coming loose. “Better change that,” Jaime said, pulling it off.

 _Gods be good!_ Her cheek was a horror! Jaime stared. Brienne stood abruptly, belting Oathkeeper around her bare waist.

“I’ll take the first watch,” she said.

“There’s nothing to watch for, Brienne,” said Jaime, “No one’s going to come down that hole after us.”

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!”

Someone splashed into the lake from the hole in the ceiling.

“He’ll drown,” said Jaime.

The man splashed about. “Help!” he yelled, “Help!”

“What are you doing?” Jaime asked Brienne as she waded into the cold lake.

“I think that’s Gendry,” she said.

Jaime watched her help Young Renly out of the lake on his weak legs, his thoughts in the bathhouse at Harrenhal. Podrick helped Gendry out of his wet clothes. Like Brienne, he kept his smallclothes on. He was more injured than before, his face purpling from a beating. One eye was starting to swell shut. His shoulder had popped out of its socket when he hit the water. Podrick helped Jaime pop it back into place. He also had broken ribs from the beating or the fall, or both. The sword cut in his leg was from the fight in the cavern. If it healed clean, he would be able to walk in . . . maybe two weeks, Jaime guessed, damn the boy.

Jaime took the torch and scavenged the least rotten cloaks and tunics from the dead to wrap around themselves, not that any of them were sound enough to cover them, or to wrap without tearing. One skull was wearing a wool stocking cap that was fairly sound. Jaime gave it to Brienne to wear. They cleared bones out of their grotto and propped the longest pieces of wood, rusty swords, scabbards, and leg bones against the wall, draping their clothes over the makeshift racks to dry. Podrick put his smallclothes on the end of a stick by the fire next to Jaime’s.

Housekeeping done, Jaime opened the bag he had taken from Jeyne Heddle and laid out the contents while Gendry eyed him suspiciously. Herbs were carefully packaged in wet linen. Brienne tied them to sticks and staked them near the fire to dry. There was the candle Jeyne had dropped when she died, and two more besides, a skin of ale, linen that used to be clean and dry, needles and thread, a tin cup, a bowl, a small cook pot with a lid, a small knife, and a flint. Inside the cup and the cook pot were a small pot of salve and a jar of honey, wrapped in cloth to cushion them from breakage. Brienne helped Podrick fashion a crude drying rack for the linen.

“So,” Jaime said, looking at Gendry, “What are you doing here?”

The boy glared at Jaime.

“Did you come here to kill us?”

“How stupid do you think I am? I don’t want to kill you that badly.”

“How badly do you want to kill me?”

Gendry scowled sullenly.

“Why did you come down that hole?” Jaime asked.

“I was pushed.”

“Why?”

“Because they saw me with you!” He spat the words at Jaime.

“We could have left you for dead in the great cavern. Though this one is greater. It is a more splendid tomb for the son of a king, I do agree.”

“Why didn’t you? Leave me to die.”

 _Because you remind my lady of her lost love._ Jaime looked at Brienne.

“My house is sworn to the lords of Storm’s End,” she said. “When did you find out you were King Robert’s son?”

“The Blackfish told me I look like he used to look.”

“You brought him to Lady Stoneheart.”

Gendry nodded.

“Where did you meet the Blackfish?” asked Jaime.

Gendry hesitated.

“I can let this wound fester,” said Jaime. “Your silence is giving me a thirst for that skin of ale.”

“I was smithing at the Crossroads Inn.”

“Start there. Tell us what happened,” Jaime commanded.

Brynden Tully heard rumors that Lady Stoneheart might be Catelyn Stark. In exchange for taking him to her, Tully offered to take Gendry on as a squire of sorts, though he had already been knighted by Beric Dondarrion. Gendry agreed. When they arrived in the hollow hill, the Blackfish was horrified by the change in his niece and tried to persuade her to go to the Vale. The strife between Stoneheart and the Blackfish awoke discontent in the brotherhood. They had always traveled in small independent bands, but after Stoneheart took over from Beric, some of the bands started stealing from those they had sworn to protect, and went unpunished. Some of the men were sick of Stoneheart's vengeance. Others wanted to sow it across the Riverlands, thinking they would starve anyway. Some wanted to settle on the farms of dead men before they were caught and hung. Others thought the Blackfish should lead the brotherhood. Still others wanted to attack Riverrun and take its stores, or resented the Blackfish for hoarding food and expelling civilians from the castle's protection. Arguments broke out. Finally, someone approached Lady Stoneheart as if to make a petition, but attacked her instead. That started the bloody brawl that Jaime and Brienne walked into. One of the rebels succeeded in taking Stoneheart's head off, Gendry claimed.

Jaime sighed. He was tired, and Brienne was shivering. He put more wood on the fire. _We should bind his hands._ He had no reason to trust this one. _There is something he isn't telling me._

“Lord Beric knighted you?” he asked the boy.

“I said he did.”

“I can bind your hands,” Jaime said, “or you can swear on your honor as a knight that you will do no harm to any one of us here as long as we are traveling companions in these caves or elsewhere.”

Gendry glanced at Jaime’s stump. “With what?” he asked with a sneering laugh.

 _With Brienne and her squire. We have five hands, but no rope._ “Strips of my tunic,” replied Jaime. “Or I can kill you, if you prefer. You’re welcome to drag yourself about the seven hells throttling Lannisters. You would even get a chance at my shade one day.” Jaime pictured the smith’s dead hands around Cersei’s beautiful neck, a sober scowling copy of Robert. Gendry’s glares and scowls were even more tiresome than Brienne’s had been. The boy was brimming with bitterness and anger.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” Gendry said finally, suspiciously.

Jaime and Gendry swore on their honor as knights. Brienne swore by her sword. Podrick swore by the Seven.

Podrick boiled some ale, and Jaime poured it carefully over Gendry’s wound.


	7. A Fireside Chat

Brienne gathered wood while Jaime and Podrick tended to Gendry. It was less embarrassing than sharing a fire with them half naked. The movement should have warmed her, if not for the stream she had to walk through to get back and forth to the camp. It flowed wide and gentle in the neighboring cavern until it narrowed and spilled over several small falls and pools, so smooth that the water made no noise as it flowed down to the beach and broadened again, carving shallow channels through the sand on its way the lake. The falls connected the two caverns, forming wet stairs. A surprising amount of driftwood had accumulated where the stream narrowed. There must have been a flood, thought Brienne, or several, to bring so much wood here. It was mostly roots, many of white weirwood, but a few split logs were in the pile. There had to be a way out of the caves by going upstream. _How far had these logs traveled?_ She was grateful for the wood, and the hope of escape, and that the torch she had taken from the last man she killed was still burning bright. But the roots were too small to sustain a warm fire by themselves, and there were so few logs, and the torch would eventually go out.

When she was satisfied with the pile of driftwood near the camp, Brienne returned to inspect the smallest grotto. She had noticed firewood stacked in it when they were scavenging clothes. It was the farthest from their fire, at the pointed end of the beach, and was higher than the others. Its floor was about two feet above the beach and lake, a good place to keep firewood dry. Here, too, Brienne noticed a few split logs amongst the roots. And behind the wood, something else.

Gendry was drowsing off when Brienne returned to the fire with two fish traps, a fishing rod and line, several hooks, and a half rotten coil of rope.

“Where did you find those?” asked Jaime.

“Underneath a coracle behind that stack of firewood in the little grotto at the end,” replied Brienne as she settled by the fire.

“A coracle?” Jaime took the torch and left the fire, returning with the small craft. It was well made but delicate, and brittle with age: scraped sheepskins sewn together and stretched over a frame of bent saplings. It looked like it had not been used in years. Jaime tipped it in front of the firelight, looking for holes. “Could this be made seaworthy with tallow?” he asked Brienne.

“Seaworthy? No. Underground lake-worthy? . . . Perhaps. It doesn’t look strong enough to hold Podrick, but we can try putting a candle in it and anchoring it under the hole in the ceiling so your men know someone’s down here. If it sinks, I can fetch it from the bottom.”

Brienne wondered how much hope they could put in Jaime’s men. Did they have enough candles? Were they better off finding their own way out? Whoever had left the firewood and fishing gear had meant to come back and use them. What had happened to him? How long would the wood last? When they tried to navigate the passageways above in pitch dark, she had almost lost Jaime. These caves were bigger and wilder. Were outlaws down here? Wolves? Some other danger?

Jaime had lit a candle and was dripping wax onto the tiny holes and rents in the coracle, rubbing it in to the sheepskin with his stump, then holding it up against the light. He cursed when he opened a new tear in the boat.

“Leave that,” said Brienne, “I’ll sew it up and you can wax it when I’m done.”

Frustrated, Jaime placed the fragile boat where it would not be damaged while they slept. He added wood to the fire and watched her mend one trap with parts from the other. A flush crept up Brienne’s cheeks as she felt him looking at her long legs. She had kept her wet smallclothes on and wrapped and tucked the remnants of a dead man’s cloak about her torso. The stocking cap Jaime gave her was on her head, but her legs were bare. Podrick was wearing a ragged tunic and two jerkins full of holes that were too big for him. Gendry was sleeping under the other rotten cloak they had scavenged. Jaime was naked but for half a tunic wrapped around his waist like a towel. A narrow towel, leaving his legs almost as bare as her own.

Jaime shifted his hips and hugged his knees to his chest.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked. “Do highborn girls on Tarth learn to make fish traps instead of embroidery?”

“Of course not. I learned this by watching a fishwife.” An old blind widow, who didn’t know she was ugly and unladylike. Who was too old to notice or, more likely, care that she was an awkward highborn stumble-tongue. Who treated her like a fisherman’s daughter, which was nicer than being treated like Brienne of Tarth.

“Did you often watch fishwives on Tarth?”

“Only one.” Brienne could not stand the looks and whispers of the others.

“Only one . . . Go on, tell the story.”

Brienne gave him a wary look.

“What? I want a bedtime story, Brienne. Your stories are so interesting!”

She scowled at him. He was mocking her now.

Jaime huffed, “Forgive me, my lady, if I have offended you. Your adventures have been interesting. For one so determined to learn soldiering, you’ve neglected to learn how to swap war stories. There is more than one way to dance, after all. Tell me about this fishwife who taught you to mend traps, a skill I am grateful you have, assuming there are fish in this lake.”

“It’s no war story. She was old and blind. A widow. I sometimes moored my sailboat near where she set her traps. When I found a broken trap washed up on the beach, I would bring it to her.”

“Did you often sail?”

“As often as I could.”

“What was the name of your boat?”

“The Just Maid, I called her, after Ser Galladon of Morne’s famous sword.”

“I am not acquainted with Ser Galladon of Morne. Was he from Tarth? Did you sail your Just Maid through a waterfall seeking his ghost, and ask him to teach you swordplay?”

Brienne gave him an annoyed look. “I sailed her all around Tarth. My father gave her to me when I was twelve-- ” Abruptly, she shut herself up and focused on the trap between her knees.

“Where did you go? What did you do, besides haul traps for blind widows?”

“At first I sailed near Evenfall. I would anchor within sight of my father’s hall to swim and fish. The better I got with a sword, the farther I ventured. When I was sixteen, I could go anywhere on the bay side of Tarth by myself, in all but the worst weather. I went ashore to hunt, cooked dinner on the beach, spent nights anchored out. I ventured to the eastern shore as well, but a boat of archers was supposed to accompany me in case of pirates, so I didn’t go often. I sailed all the way around Tarth once, though.”

“Was the boat a nameday gift?” Jaime asked.

“No,” she said, biting her lip. _Does he know? Did the story travel to King’s Landing?_ “I was betrothed when I was twelve. The boy broke the betrothal in front of all the guests in my father’s hall. I hid my face as much as I could after that, until finally my father gave me the boat. He told me that if I stopped hiding and held my head up while ashore, he would allow me to take it out by myself and sail away from men’s eyes, so long as I kept Evenfall in sight. . . Evenfall is visible from a long way away.”

“Is that when you took up the sword?”

“In earnest, yes. I had played at swords with my brother and other boys when I was little, but gave it up-- well, mostly-- when . . .” she trailed off.

“When . . . ?”

“When I was betrothed the first time. When I was seven. That boy died two years later, but I tried to be a lady.”

“You are a lady,” Jaime said. Brienne reddened. “I thought you said you were your father’s only child.”

“His only surviving child. My brother Galladon drowned when he was eight and I was four. I had two sisters who died in the cradle.”

“You are your lord father’s heir. He did not try again to see you married?”

“He did. He will not again.”

Jaime was silent for a moment before he spoke. The man could not be silent for long, it seemed.

“Is it asking too much for that story, Brienne?”

She looked at the sleeping Gendry-- handsome-- and glanced at Jaime-- beautiful. Podrick would be ordinary looking when he became a man. Brienne looked at her enormous hands, looked down her muscular thighs and calves to her big feet and hairy toes warmed by the fire.

“My father found an old castellan who agreed to marry me. Old enough to be my grandfather.” _Why was she t_ _elling him this_ _?_ “He threatened to chastise me if his wife cavorted about in man’s mail. I said I would only accept chastisement from a man who could outfight me, so we dueled in the yard at Evenfall. I broke his collarbone, two ribs, and our betrothal.”

Jaime’s laughter danced merrily across the fire to her before darkness swallowed it. “Good for you!” he said. His smile lingered.

_Maybe_ _that one_ _is a good story,_ she thought, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.


	8. Fishing in the Dark

A woman’s fingers were in his hair, trailing over his ear, gently caressing his chest. She called out his name.

“Jaime!”

Brienne’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. Jaime opened his eyes and saw nothing.

“Jaime, I need the flint.”

Jaime had gone to sleep with Jeyne’s bag. Brienne’s other hand was wrapped around its strap, her knuckles brushing against his skin. He sat up and she pulled it over his head. Jaime flexed his fingers. Enveloped in darkness, his eyes couldn’t tell him what a maimed wretch he was, and his body didn’t want to. Both hands felt whole. _Maybe I am still dreaming_ , he thought.

Sparks flew. Brienne was scraping the flint against Oathkeeper’s blade. Jaime caught a glimpse of his stump.

“Here. Take my knife. It will be easier.”

Sparks flew again. Oathkeeper’s hilt slid the few inches home to its scabbard and clicked against it. Buckles clinked. Brienne found Jaime’s arm first, feeling her way down to his empty wrist. Jaime guided her hands to his, where he was holding his small knife, hilt outwards. Her fingers gently explored his wrists and hand until she found it and grasped the hilt.

“Jaime? The knife? Are you all right?”

He reluctantly let go. Her fingers slipped away.

“I’m fine.”

The unwearable shreds of clothing made good tinder, and Brienne had a small fire going in short order. Jaime put on his smallclothes and checked on his other things.

“We need to move the fire closer to the wall, or our clothes are never going to dry.”

The others were awake now. Podrick and Jaime shifted the fire while Brienne lit a candle and checked the fish trap. She returned with a small fish that she had cleaned and gutted in the water, and it cooked quickly. Podrick took a share, but Gendry looked at her like she was trying to poison him. Jaime refused too, remembering how little Brienne had eaten in the last few days. She stripped the meat off, sucked out the eyes, cut the sharp bones off the spine and ate the marrow-rich vertebrae, chewing them thoroughly like a cow chewing cud. She was inspecting the skull a second time for hidden pockets of meat when she noticed her companions watching her. Brienne dropped the skull in the fire and wiped her hands in the sand.

“I need to set the trap in deeper water,” she said, grabbing her sword belt and standing up.

Despite Brienne’s previous assessment that the coracle was too fragile to carry Podrick, she put the little boat in the water and helped the boy climb in. It held. He got out and left his clothes on the sand before carefully getting back in the boat. Brienne handed him their gear and the torch and watched him paddle away with a makeshift oar. The boat zigged and zagged slowly as the boy awkwardly managed the torch and the oar. When he was under the hole in the ceiling, Brienne shed her clothes and waded into the water wearing only her sword belt. The empty sheath for the dagger Jaime had last seen in Podrick’s hand hung from it, but Oathkeeper had been left by the fire.

She swam to the boat. Podrick handed her the trap and held the torch over the side. The water was clear and not deep. Brienne would be able to see to the bottom. Jaime watched from the waterline as her head disappeared under the water and reappeared, disappeared and reappeared again. Each time she disappeared, she seemed to stay under a little longer. _It’s not deep,_ Jaime reminded himself as she slipped back under the surface. Podrick was unwinding the fishing line. _Brienne’s a strong swimmer_. She emerged again, speaking to the boy over the edge of the boat. _What is she doing?_ She was treading water, and Podrick handed her the torch. _She needs to come out of there_. Podrick climbed out of the boat with a splash, rocking the coracle. _They are taking too long_. Brienne’s blonde head disappeared again, the torch steady above the water. Podrick splashed about near the flame. He seemed to rise out of the water, then toppled in a great splash. _What in_ _seven_ _hells?_ _Is he trying to get_ _on her shoulders?_ Podrick tried again. He took the torch from Brienne and it waved wildly while he struggled to do whatever he was trying to do. Then he splashed into the water again, and the torch snuffed out.

Jaime grabbed a burning brand from the fire and ran into the lake. He met Brienne and Podrick where the water reached his waist. Brienne’s teeth were chattering. _The stubborn fool! What was she thinking?_ _She’s been cold and damp for two days!_ Jaime tried to hand Podrick the brand, but threw it impatiently at the shore when the boy couldn’t manage to grasp it. It landed just shy of the sand with a hiss, another light swallowed by the dark. Jaime put his arm around Brienne and pulled her toward the fire. A sopping cloak was tucked into her belt, dragging heavily in the water. He yanked it out and shoved it at Podrick. _Stupid wench!_ She had also retrieved the dagger and was wearing the sword and belt of the outlaw who had plunged into the lake with Jaime.

Jaime dragged Brienne as close to the fire as possible, which Gendry was building up. She was shivering violently, her limbs stiff, beautiful eyes confused. Jaime shed his own wet garments and sat behind her, pressing his warm chest against her cold back and wrapping his legs around her hips and thighs, vigorously rubbing her arms. Podrick collected the things left on the beach and laid out the wet garments somewhere to dry. Brienne’s smallclothes joined the others on sticks by the fire. The sword was unsheathed and propped against the wall.

After some time, Jaime breathed a sigh of relief into the back of Brienne’s neck. She was still shivering, but dry. The fire was doing its work. Podrick had put the stocking cap on her head and both scavenged cloaks over her chest and lap, tucking them in between her and Jaime to stay in place. Gendry lay by the fire in his smallclothes, staring at the rock over his head. Podrick huddled beside them, still naked. He looked miserable.

“Get dressed,” Jaime told him. “You have dry clothes. Wear them or someone else will.”

“Th-th-the c-c-candle. I d-d-dropped it. In th-the w-water.”

That’s what they had been trying to do. They had spoken of setting a candle in the coracle as a signal, before Brienne had come round to Jaime’s conclusion that neither friend nor foe would come for them before morning and gone to sleep without setting a watch or a signal.

“No one’s getting in the water right now. Get dressed.”

When Brienne was warm enough to order her squire around, Podrick brought her the second fish trap, the dagger, and the bit of rope that wasn’t in the middle of the lake. He separated the rope into fibers and sorted through the firewood for pieces that she could use to mend the trap. It was a little while longer before Brienne’s fingers thawed enough to work deftly. Jaime watched over her shoulder.

“How’s your arm?” he asked.

“It’s not so bad.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It just aches a bit. The splint is doing it’s job.”

_As am I. Keeping you warm._

“Did you see any fish in the lake?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Enough to keep us alive.”

“What are the chances of trapping them without bait?”

Brienne hesitated. “I baited the trap. And the fishing line.”

“With what?”

Brienne didn’t answer.

_Thank the gods there are fish in this lake_ , Jaime thought. _Elsewise, it would be us eating the bait._ He had seen enough of that at Harrenhal.

“What else did you see in the lake, my lady? You were down there long enough to take a tour.”

“Bones. Armor. Decaying clothes. A few bags and pockets. There might be candles in them. I’ll dive for them when I set out this trap.”

“No!” Jaime hugged Brienne tighter to his chest and she sucked in a breath sharply. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, immediately relaxing his grip. His arms were around her waist, above the cloaks. “Not until your clothes are dry.”

“The sooner the better. When we run out of firewood, that’s when I need to stay out of the water. I won’t make the mistake of staying in too long again.”

She was right. “You just want me to warm you when you get out,” Jaime grumbled. Her ears and neck turned pink. Blood rushed to Jaime’s cock as well, and it stiffened against Brienne’s hips. Her ears turned from pink to red and Brienne’s fingers faltered. _That was a stupid thing to say._

“I should not have said that, my lady. Please excuse me.”

Brienne’s hands resumed their work, very deliberately.

“Do you want me to move?”

Gendry rolled over disapprovingly, turning his back to them. Podrick was very focused on sorting pieces of wood. Brienne did not answer. Nor did she get up or push him away, or stab him with the dagger at her feet.

“I will not take you against your will, Brienne,” Jaime whispered.

She wrapped a twig with fiber, tying it to its neighbor.

“Podrick, pass me that pile of wood," she said. "That’s enough. You can scour my mail now.”


	9. A Thicket of Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's heart argues with her head.

It felt good to be making something, to be good at making it, even a simple thing. An important thing, just now. Even the pains in her broken arm felt good. She hadn’t lied to Jaime. They reminded her that she was alive and healing. Brienne’s fingers worked expertly this morning. Last night, she had had to undo and redo her work. She had never thought to need this skill of mending traps, had barely remembered it to begin with. Brienne had never been good at embroidery. Under Septa Roelle’s critical eye, the tiny needle and thread disappeared in her enormous hands and swam crookedly across the fine cloth. After the first few times, she stopped bringing her “boy’s things” to mend in the presence of the septa or the other ladies. The disapproval was just too much. She turned a better stitch in the privacy of her own chamber. She sometimes mended her clothes in The Just Maid as she dried in the sun after a swim, before she put them back on. The light was much better than indoors, and if she did stab her fingers as her pretty boat swayed on its anchor, it hurt less than the septa’s sharp tongue. She had sewn a fine stitch to repair the little skin boat, and this trap was progressing faster than the other, when Jaime was not distracting her.

 _I will not take you against your will._ Did that mean . . . ?

Brienne furrowed her brow and undid the last row of knots, all done wrongly. Jaime was distracting. _What did you expect?_ She hadn’t known what to expect. Men were beyond her experience. Kind, protective, desirable men who were genuinely fond of her were beyond her experience.

And Jaime was fond of her. She was not so blind to not see it. Nor foolish enough to imagine it.

Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the most beautiful man in the seven kingdoms, was fond of her, Brienne, the ugliest maid in the realm.

The Maid of Tarth.

The Lord Commander.

_He is not for me. Kingsguards serve for life._

_Barristan the Bold did not_ , her heart whispered. _Sandor Clegane was replaced._

 _And what happened to them?_ her head replied. _Clegane is a wanted man. Barristan has not been seen since he was dismissed._ _He may not have outlived his duty by many days._

 _He is not them_ , her heart argued. _He is like no one else._

 _He honors his oaths_ , countered her head. _He will return to his king, his little son, and there is no place for a woman in White Sword Tower._

_He sent me after the girl he thinks responsible for his other son’s murder. Not for justice or vengeance, but to protect her. To keep our oaths to her mother._

_What kind of man is that? What kind of kingsguard is that?_

_Jaime. That man is Jaime Lannister,_ answered her heart stubbornly. _A good man._

_A beautiful man. A powerful man. Like Renly. Beautiful and unattainable. Not for you._

_A kind man. An honorable man. Not at all like Renly._

_Your enemy._

_My . . . my . . ._

_Your liege lady’s enemy._

_Stoneheart is dead. She was not truly Lady Catelyn._

_Sansa Stark’s enemy._

_Sansa Stark’s protector._

_He loves another. His own sister!_

_But . . ._

_He had carnal knowledge of his own sister!_

_. . . He is faithful. He told Lady Catelyn he had never been with another woman._

_. . . Then why is he here with you?_

_. . . Why is he here with me?_

_He is reckless and restless,_ her head answered. _He prefers the field to the council chamber, as you do._

_Do I? I miss Evenfall. The beautiful light in the great hall this time of morning. The sound of the ocean and the trees. The clean salty air. The safety. My father’s solar. The practice yard. Men were not allowed to mock me there, not out loud. . . Jaime doesn’t mock me. Not anymore._

_Does he?_

_He calls me Brienne. He . . . seems to like my name on his lips_. Brienne blushed. _He does! He says it often enough. Not wench, except when he’s angry._

_He respects you. As he respects Loras Tyrell and Addam Marbrand, his lieutenants. He does not take them to his bed._

_I . . . I . . . He’s wrapped around me like campfire bread on a stick!_

_He needs your two hands and your strong body to get him back to King’s Landing. Back to Cersei._

_His . . . His . . . I can feel him naked and hard against me._

_He longs for his sister. His lover. Not you. Any man would have that reaction pressed skin to skin against a woman like this._

_Any man?_

_I really don’t know. Want to ask Gendry?_

_No._

_Jaime?_

_I . . . No . . . Of course . . . What?_

Brienne’s hands were idle on the trap between her knees. How long had Jaime been silent? She felt the warmth of his breath on her shoulder. He moved his head from time to time. Sometimes she felt his lips brush against her skin. Did he notice what that did to her? Surely, he noticed . . . Brienne flushed in embarrassment.

 _I can enjoy being warm and safe in his arms,_ whispered Brienne’s heart. _For the time being. _A flock of thoughts and sensations fluttered in her head and flapped against her heart. She did not know what to do with them.__

 _How safe are you, really?_ The thought broke from the rest and caught her attention.

_Safe. Together. If there is a way out of here, we can find it. If there is danger, we can fight it. We make a good team. . . He said he would not take me against my will. . . Does that . . . Does that mean . . . ?_

_Does that mean what?_

_. . ._ _He feels good. Warm. Strong. Gentle. Good._

_You’re a stubborn wench._

_Yes._


	10. The Third Day

The linen binding Gendry’s wound was clotted with blood.

“Smith, let me look at your wound.”

“I’m a knight!”

“Ser Gendry, let me look at your wound.”

“Why?”

“Your death by putrefaction would save us a lot of trouble, but it would offend Lady Brienne, and knights ought to be courteous to women.

“What do you know of healing?”

“Enough, you should hope. I watch the maesters and ask questions when I visit wounded men. I find it interesting. Useful, too. Give me a look.”

It was a clean cut, deep into the muscle. The wound seemed clean, but it had opened in the night, or never really closed. “Brienne,” Jaime asked, “Can you stitch this shut?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I think it’s best if you try. It will keep opening if it’s not stitched.”

“Does your medical knowledge include what kind of stitch I should use? I’ve never sewn a wound shut before.”

“Neither have I. Use your judgment. An embroidered stag is probably not suitable.”

“I’m no good at embroidery.”

Brienne sat on Gendry’s feet while she carefully stitched his thigh. Jaime sat low on the boy’s stomach, beneath his ribs, trapping his arms tightly between his knees when he jerked. The boy was truly miserable. He couldn’t even thrash or grimace in pain without hurting something that was already broken or bruised. When Brienne had finished, she dribbled boiled ale over the bloody seam and sent Podrick to the lake to clean the soiled linen. Gendry passed out well before she was done.

“What about you?” she asked Jaime, reaching out and lightly touching one of the many scrapes on his torso before quickly pulling her hand away. “How did you get these?”

Jaime laughed. _Ilyn Payne’s love bites_. “Those are from your squire’s cousin. I’ve been practicing with my left hand, every night. Will you dance with me, my lady? Some of the swords down here might be dull enough to serve as practice weapons. If not, I remember how to hold a stick.”

Brienne blushed. “Later, after we’re done in the lake.”

Jaime reached for Brienne’s cheek. It looked terrible, but mostly healed. He suspected the bandage she had worn the last few days had served more to hide the wound than to protect it.“Does it hurt?” he asked, carefully touching it with his stump.

“It’s . . . not comfortable. When I came up for air, it hurt,” she admitted. She slowly opened her mouth, stretching the cheek until she winced.

“It doesn’t seem to need any boiled ale.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Biter did this to you.”

“Yes.”

It was the kind of disfigurement that drew the eye in horrified fascination, like Tyrion’s. This time Brienne returned Jaime’s stare until a tear escaped her eye before turning her head away.

“I’m sorry, Brienne.”

She shook her head and mumbled, wiping her eyes. Jaime gave her a soft peck on her wounded cheek and went to check on Podrick.

Mercifully, the torch was still usable after its dunk in the lake. Podrick paid close attention to Brienne as she gave him detailed instructions. Then they stripped and waded in. Brienne stopped before the water reached her hips, lighting the cavern with the torch while Podrick swam to the coracle with Jeyne’s bag. In Brienne’s other hand, she carried a long, odd-looking implement that she stuck into the ground next to her. As luck would have it, the longest stick they could find was the haft of a spear. She had tied it to the hilt of an old sword and Gendry had fitted the distal end of a femur onto the other end of the haft, securing it with rope, cloth, and wax. Under her arm, she carried the fish trap she had mended earlier that day, a piece of rope secured to it. She looped the rope around the sword’s cross guard so the trap wouldn’t stray.

Podrick swam well enough to save his skin, but not much better. After several attempts, he was able to climb into the coracle without capsizing it. In his bag, he carried two candles, a small raft-like platform Brienne had fashioned, and rope that had been separated into smaller plies. When he finished tying the platform to the bow of the boat, he waved to Brienne. She brought him the torch, first walking, then swimming, easily keeping it high and dry. He took it from her and lit a candle, affixing it to the platform by melting the bottom a little. Brienne swam back for the spear of sorts. With the long implement in one hand and the trap tied to her waist, her second trip was not as simple as the first. Podrick held the torch over the side of the boat so Brienne could see while she planted the contraption in the lake bottom. Then he lit the second candle and set it in the recess at the end of the bone. Brienne popped out of the water with the first trap and dumped a few fish into the boat before disappearing under the surface again to set the traps. To Jaime’s relief, she came out shivering but not sick and hurried past him to the fire, snatching up her garments as she went. Podrick snuffed the torch and followed her in the coracle, rowing with both his hands. Jaime helped him carry the boat and its cargo of fish to their grotto.

Gendry had woken up. The boys dressed and cooked the fish as best they could while Brienne thawed by the fire. She could have done better, but she let them fend for themselves while Jaime wrapped himself around her. _I can probably manage a fish as well as that,_ Jaime thought. Suddenly morose, he opened and closed his hand, staring at it. Brienne took it nervously and rubbed it between hers, first stealing its warmth, then giving it back. _That, I cannot do,_ Jaime thought sadly. His cock stirred, and a warm flush suffused Brienne’s face and neck. _That’s one way to warm her, I suppose._ Jaime lay his cheek against her shoulder, willing his cock to calm down.

After they had eaten, Brienne patched a rip in the coracle that opened where the warm torch had weakened the skin. Jaime and Podrick rigged a socket out of bones and cloth so the torch could be braced between the candle platform and the frame without tearing the bottom of the boat. After testing their repairs, Podrick lit the torch, placed it in its bracket, and paddled to the tiny light that marked where their traps were. He would illuminate the water while Brienne and Jaime each took a turn diving for anything useful. Jaime went first. Fish nervously nibbled the exposed flesh of the fallen outlaw, scattering when he approached. A trap lay next to him. The man’s pouch had fallen between some armor. Jaime tucked it into his belt. He saw the candle Podrick had dropped, grabbed it and surfaced, handing it to the boy. He dived again. Daggers and knives glinted. He seized a spear, but the rotten haft broke in his hand. He tucked several small pouches into his belt before surfacing for another breath. They felt too loose, so he pulled them out and gave them to Podrick. _Once more_. Below the water, he yanked a bag free of its owner’s bones, chose a knife, put it in his mouth, and swam for shore.

Once dry and somewhat warm again, they inspected their slime covered treasure: flints, knives, softened animal bones, and wet wool socks. All but two of the tallow candles were stubs. The largest bag was the real treasure. Brienne had pulled it to shore, a pack containing two large jars tightly sealed with thick grease and string, whose contents were remarkably dry. One contained quills, two tiny knives with differently shaped blades, whetstone, sealing wax, and a small pot that had broken despite cloth padding and covered everything else in hardened black ink. The other contained dry parchments, some filled with writing, some blank, tightly rolled around each other and wrapped in clean linen. More importantly, a half dozen tall, thick candles were carefully nestled in the pack, along with two pairs of wool socks and the remains of a book. Jaime wished the socks had been packed in the jars instead of the writing paraphernalia. The pack didn’t seem to have belonged to the sort of man who would wander about in a hollow hill without a light. _Perhaps he was fleeing some pursuer when his candle blew out, _Jaime mused. Whatever the cause, he was grateful for the man’s demise.__

____

Brienne wandered away from the fire with a candle and returned with two sticks. Jaime watched her train Podrick for about an hour before his turn came.

____

“It’s a bit cramped here,” he told Brienne. “Lets go in the other cave.”

____

Brienne gave him a look, but she told Podrick to stay by the fire and try to dry their clothes faster, then took two rusted swords and followed Jaime up the watery steps. When they reached the neighboring cave, Jaime set the candle on a ledge, unwrapped the cloth around his waist, and dried his bare feet. Then he dried Brienne’s, much to her embarrassment. He shook the dirt off the cloth and put it back on.

____

The swords were quickly discarded in favor of sticks, else Jaime would have joined Gendry on the sick list. Brienne held back and barely touched him, but her rusty and pitted blade made a dirty, jagged scratch on his chest that he washed out in the cold stream. She was a good fighter and freakishly strong, but it pained him to be thrashed by a woman. It didn’t matter that Brienne had broken ribs and a broken arm. He could not touch her, and Jaime would wake in the morning covered in new bruises. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride, thankful that she made no comment on his prowess. When she pitied him, he came at her furiously. “Don’t coddle me, wench!” he cried. She didn’t. When they returned to the fire, he was shivering with sweat. He wrapped himself in his damp and dirty cloak. It was dry enough, and he didn’t want Gendry and Podrick to see the beating Brienne had given him.

____

Jaime took the first watch.

____


	11. The Fourth Day

Podrick brought him the shield after he had done training with Brienne. Jaime waved away the squire’s offer of help and buckled his golden hand on himself. When he got out of this cave, his squires could fight amongst themselves for the privilege of wiping his arse, but down here, Jaime would hold his own as much as possible. Instead of slipping the shield on his arm, he took a moment to inspect it. The arms looked more a picture than a proper coat of arms. Green leaves were dappled in the golden light of evening. Sword cuts slashed the tail of the shooting star. Brienne noticed Jaime admiring the shield.

“You said that was left behind at the Crossroads Inn,” she said to Podrick.

“It was. Ser. My Lady. Left behind. Gendry dropped it. In the fight. In the hollow hill.”

“I needed a shield,” said Gendry. He was coming down with a fever.

“This is yours?” Jaime asked.

“It’s the one you gave me,” said Brienne. “I had it repainted in Dunskendale.”

Jaime smiled. A pretty shield suited Brienne, though he couldn’t say why. “These are Duncan the Tall’s arms, are they not?”

“I had it painted after an old shield I once saw in my father’s armory.”

“A shooting star over an elm tree, on an evening sky?”

“Yes.”

“Those are Duncan the Tall’s arms,” Jaime repeated. “I remember them from the White Book. He married on Tarth, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

 _Was his Tarth wife as tall and strong as he, with eyes as blue as the sky on a clear summer’s day?_ Jaime slipped the shield over his maimed arm, and went to dance with Brienne.

After they had eaten, Jaime had Podrick tell him of his brother’s adventures. The boy was a worse storyteller than Brienne. _How did I get stuck in this tomb with three Silent Sisters?_ Pulling the tale from the boy was like wresting a bone from a dog. The bone had plenty of meat, though. Jaime limited the subject to Tyrion’s battle exploits, lest the boy let slip Lannister business in front of Gendry and Brienne. He suspected the boy’s loyalty was more to Brienne than to his brother. She might discover some secret, but Jaime would not encourage it in front of Robert’s bastard.

He listened attentively, proud of his baby brother. Tyrion, untrained, had been baptized in blood and lived. He had roused men to courage, or shamed them to fight, or both, when the Hound had turned craven. Luck of the innocent or ignorant, perhaps? Jaime could not help but laugh at the thought. Tyrion was neither.

“How did Tyrion come to lose his nose?” Jaime asked.

“It was c-c-cut. Off.”

“Of course it was. Did you see it happen?”

“Yes. Ser,” Podrick said to Brienne’s feet, nervously.

“How did it happen?” The boy’s tongue was stuck. “Everyone’s luck runs out sooner or later, boy. Your war stories won’t give me nightmares. Tyrion didn’t turn tail and run, did he?”

“No, ser! Lord Tyrion was very brave!”

“So, tell me how my brave brother came to lose his nose.”

“Ser M-Mandon M-M-Moore tried t-to k-k-k-kill Lord Tyrion.”

“Ser Mandon?” _How is it my brother lost his nose and not his life?_ He asked Podrick as much.

“He moved. Lord Tyrion. Moved. Out of the way. Just.”

“Did Tyrion kill Ser Mandon?

“No, ser.”

“Who, then?”

“I . . . k-k-k- . . . I k-k-k-k- . . . I p-p-pushed him. In the Blackwater.”

Ser Mandon Moore, pushed to his death by this pipsqueak? That was . . . unexpected. Jaime would be sure to write it in the White Book. _Why would Ser Mandon try to kill Tyrion?_ The man followed orders. Joffrey’s orders? Jaime considered. No, his vile son wanted to humiliate Tyrion, not kill him. Not yet, anyway. Unless he was afraid? Had Tyrion found something out? That was nothing new. Tyrion kept the family’s secrets. _Cersei._ It had to be Cersei. _She asked me to murder our brother._ He was not the first kingsguard she asked, it would seem. Did she bed Mandon, too?

Jaime was sick of it. Was it better to be alone in the world like Gendry or Podrick, or to belong to a family of kinslayers? Podrick had Brienne, at least. _Who do I have?_ Daven? Aunt Genna? It wasn’t the same. Tommen? Myrcella? They were only children. Would they hate him for what he had done? Would do? Jaime sighed.

“Have you no living kin, Brienne, besides your father?”

“Distant cousins.” She paused and looked at Gendry. “Gendry and I are cousins. I meant to tell you that,” she told him, “before the Bloody Mummers interrupted us.”

Startled, Gendry leaned closer to the fire, his swollen eye twitching. “What? How?”

Brienne took her time to answer, so Jaime offered, “Most lords of great houses marry the daughters of their bannermen. Several of my fa- my- Several Lannister bannermen are my cousins.”

“Your sister married a Baratheon,” countered Gendry. “And Lord Stark married the Lord of Riverrun’s daughter. His other daughter married the Lord of the Vale.”

“That’s a recent development,” Jaime pointed out. “Before that, lords married their bannermen. Stannis married a Florent. Stark was the first Lord of Winterfell to marry a southron girl.

Brienne answered, “A younger Baratheon did marry one of my ancestors, but that was long ago. The closest blood we share runs through the Targaryen line.”

Podrick’s jaw dropped. Gendry looked pained.

Brienne continued, “Robert was Rhaegar’s second cousin. His claim to the throne came from his grandmother, Aegon the Unlikely’s youngest daughter. Aegon’s friend Duncan the Tall married a woman on Tarth who died during the six year winter, while he was escorting Bloodraven to the Wall, and he joined Aegon’s kingsguard soon after. He brought his sons to court, where they served as cupbearers and squires. The eldest died when he was barely older than Podrick, in the fourth Blackfyre Rebellion.”

“at the Battle of Wendwater Bridge, with my great-uncle Tion,” Jaime added.

Brienne nodded. “His second son also died a squire, during the Baratheon Uprising. Do you know that story? How Aegon’s daughter came to be betrothed to Robert’s grandfather?”

Gendry looked confused, so Jaime elaborated. “Aegon’s heir, Duncan the Small, was betrothed to the Stormlord’s daughter, but he married Jenny of Oldstones instead and gave up his birthright to his younger brother Jahaerys, who became Aerys’s father. Lord Lyonel, the Stormlord, rose in rebellion at the slight. The war was settled by single combat between Lord Lyonel and Duncan the Tall, who was then Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. A new betrothal between Aegon’s daughter and Lyonel’s son sealed the peace.”

Brienne picked up her story, “Two other children died as infants. So Duncan the Tall was left with only one son and one daughter. The son squired at court, but he preferred Tarth, and returned home when he became a knight. The Evenstar gifted him a small estate, to curry favor with his father and his Targaryen connections. Duncan’s daughter Ghislaine, his youngest, was raised on Tarth and never went to court. Aegon’s kin squired for the Lord Commander. And the Lord Commander brought them to Tarth when he visited his children.

“Duncan’s last squire was Gaemon Targaryen, the eldest son of Duncan Targaryen and Jenny of Oldstones. During the last years of his life, Duncan visited Tarth more often. He had a grandson, the apple of his eye. Ghislaine had married a household knight who was killed in a skirmish with pirates soon after their son was born. The young widow lived with her brother, who raised the boy as a son, and Gaemon fell in love with her. She was an inappropriate match: eight years older than he, very shy, unsuited to court life, the lowborn mother of a lowborn son. But his father had given up a crown for Jenny of Oldstones, and Gaemon was stubborn. He was eighteen years old and had been promised his knighthood the last time he accompanied Duncan to Tarth. He married Ghislaine in secret and announced the marriage to her father and brother after it was done. Gaemon meant to return to Kings Landing for his knighting ceremony and then settle on Tarth, but he was barely married when Aegon summoned the Targaryens to Summerhall, and Gaemon went. He perished there along with the entire Dragonfly branch of the Targaryens. Ghislaine gave birth to his daughter eight months later. Gaemon’s daughter, my mother, was betrothed to the Evenstar’s son, my father, on account of her Targaryen blood.

“Tarth is isolated. Gaemon never knew he was a father. If anyone on the mainland knew he married, they seem to have forgotten. Maybe the news died at Summerhall with his brothers and sisters. It’s not a secret on Tarth. My mother was second cousin to Prince Rhaegar and King Robert, Gendry. We both descend from Aegon the fifth.”

The cave was quiet as Brienne’s companions absorbed her story. A burnt log collapsed under the weight of the one above it, throwing up a spray of golden sparks and glowing like a tiny maw of hell. No one moved to feed it.

“Your storytelling ability has grown prodigiously of late, my lady.”

Brienne became awkward again. “It’s an old tale. I’ve heard it many times.”

“What became of your uncles and grandmother?” Jaime asked.

“Duncan the Tall took my uncle to Summerhall as a page. He died there. My great uncle never married. He and my grandmother died when I was seven.”

 _The year you were betrothed and gave up playing at swords,_ Jaime noted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A World of Ice and Fire asserts that House Tarth boasts of blood ties to the Durrandons, the Baratheons, and more recently, the Targaryens. This inspired me to incorporate a blood tie between Brienne and Gendry into this story. GRRM has also confirmed that Brienne is a descendant of Duncan the Tall. It seems to me that the most likely way for Brienne to be descended from both the baseborn Duncan and the royal Targs is for Duncan’s descendants to rise in status through marriage over several generations to produce her mother as the daughter of minor lord, and for one of Aegon V’s younger sisters to marry an Evenstar of Tarth. Maester Aemon has memories of his sister’s children, so there is canonical support for undescribed branches of the Targ line through one or both of his younger sisters, Daella and Rhae.
> 
> But, unless Jenny of Oldstones and Duncan Targaryen were infertile, their epic love match should have produced several children, opening another avenue. Still, according to canon, they had no grandchildren at the time of the Tragedy of Summerhall, which was intended to celebrate of the birth of Aegon V’s first great-grandchild, Rhaegar.
> 
> After Summerhall, the Kings Landing and Baratheon branches were the remnants of a once sprawling dynasty. The Baratheons are never mentioned as having been at Summerhall. I think it likely that Ormund Baratheon, as well as Dealla’s and Rhae’s lord husbands were not invited or chose not to bring their families to Summerhall. Presumably, the descendants of Aegon’s sisters, if any exist, belong to minor houses or have blood ties too distant to still be thought of as Targs, but rather have just “a drop of dragon’s blood.” Historical precedent could insulate them to an extent from the bloody struggle for the iron throne because they descend from the female line. (Robert’s claim was also through a female line, and a cadet branch to boot, but where there’s a will, there’s a way.) Because Duncan the Small renounced his claim to the throne and married a baseborn woman of dubious ancestry, it makes sense that his descendants would fall into an even less threatening category, even though their blood ties are close to the royal line.
> 
> Ultimately, I chose this particular genealogy because: 1. It’s more dramatic. 2. It’s more romantic. I enjoy the incongruity of Brienne being the legacy of so many romantic figures, including one of the most sung about love matches in Westeros. 3. Gendry and Brienne are more closely related this way. 4. This is fan-fiction, so what the hell-- might as well go out on a limb.


	12. Days Pass

Brienne wondered if their days underground were shorter or longer than days above, without the sun to tell them when to wake and when to sleep. She took to judging the passage of time by the color of Gendry’s bruised eye and the length of his beard.

The morning after the Brotherhood without Banners chased them into the underground lake, her cousin’s eye was purple and swollen shut. After establishing the necessities for survival, they fell into a routine. Upon waking, Podrick checked the traps. She, Jaime and Podrick broke their fast on grilled fish, Gendry on fish soup. After eating, Brienne trained with Podrick and then Jaime while Gendry healed. They prepared and ate a midday meal. They rested and kept up the camp. They trained at swords again. They shared an evening meal and whiled away another hour or two before before setting the night watches and trying to sleep, from fatigue, fever, or boredom. Gendry’s fever warmed his skin and burned the poison in his blood, but it was nothing like Brienne’s had been. He did not call out in his sleep or think Brienne was his mother. He slept much and had little appetite.

Jaime liked to talk. Brienne wondered how he had endured solitary confinement at Riverrun. Had he told her once that he spoke to himself in his cell? She would be surprised if he had not. After Brienne explained again to Gendry how they were related, drawing a family tree in the sand and teaching him the letters D, J, A, G, and R so he could distinguish the branches of the tree, she ran Podrick through his lessons. Soon she heard Jaime speaking to Gendry:

“R-O-A-R. Roar. R-O-A-M. Roam. R-O-A-D. Road. Rob. That’s a B. Rock. C. K. Rod. D. Road. There’s an A there, see the difference? Rogue. I don’t know why rogue has extra letters. Rock. It has a C before the K, but they sound the same. Roll. Two L’s. Rope. Roar. There’s an A there, too. . . Rose. . . Rot. . . Rove. . . Row.” Jaime scratched letters in the sand with his left hand while spelling out the words to Gendry. The clacking of Brienne and Podrick’s sticks punctuated the writing lesson while Gendry slowly copied Jaime’s letters with a pained look on his face that was becoming familiar. His purple eye was turning blue and trying to open. Brienne was fairly certain her two companions disliked one another. She surmised that Jaime was teaching Gendry to read simply to hear himself talk, and that Gendry was learning out of frustration with his inability to walk or be very useful. Thereafter, Podrick and Gendry took lessons at the same time. _I should teach Podrick to read_ , she thought. The boy took to copying what was left of Gendry’s lesson while Brienne and Jaime practiced and Gendry slept.

During the slow hours, Jaime discovered it was easiest to make conversation by debating military strategy with Brienne. Sometimes they would refight historic battles by taking the roles of opposing commanders and having Podrick and Gendry, when he was feeling well enough, judge the outcome of their troop movements. They also discussed tactics of hand to hand combat.

“How did the Red Viper fare against the Mountain?” Brienne asked Jaime.

“Podrick, you were there? Describe the trial for Lady Brienne.”

Podrick’s tongue seemed looser when recalling a battle, Brienne noticed, except for the events concerning Ser Mandon’s death. The others paid rapt attention while the boy described the fight, and Jaime did not volunteer any details the boy might have missed until Podrick had finished.

“The Mountain screamed for weeks before he died,” Jaime finally added. “Martell must have poisoned his spear.”

“Good,” grunted Gendry.

“Would you have done it the same way, Ser Jaime? Fought the Mountain?” asked Brienne.

“You tell me, my lady. If Thoros of Myr brought the Mountain back from the dead, and he stood between you and Sansa Stark, how would you fight him? Would you conjure your cage of steel to protect you until he tired?”

Brienne sucked on her horsey teeth with a serious look, pondering the question. “No, I couldn’t take so many of his blows. I would have to dance around him like Martell did.”

“Smart girl. What else? You're both quick for your size.”

“I have Oathkeeper instead of a spear, so I would not have the reach on him. My shield is no mirror. . .” Brienne was thinking aloud. “But Valyrian steel cuts through plate better than ordinary steel. . . I would try to get behind him and aim for the points behind the knee and under the arm, like Martell, but also his ankle and foot. It’s a long way from the Mountain’s arm to his foot. It would be the easiest to strike, and the hardest for him to defend.”

Brienne pursed her lips in thought. “If Martell had pinned the Mountain to the ground on his belly instead of his back, he might have won. He would have had to kill him through the armpit or the groin, unless he simply let him bleed to death? Messy, but . . . safer.”

“Is that what you would do?” Jaime asked.

“If I were badly injured. But if that were so, I would be dead, I think. Any wound from the Mountain would be a serious one. I would want to make sure he was dead. So, go for his ankles. Bring him to his knees. Get behind him and take his head off.”

“And if his helm is bolted to his gorget, like in the trial?” asked Jaime.

“Then . . . Take off his arm at the elbow.” _This is getting very grisly_ , Brienne thought. _Will there come a day when I have to hack a man to death piece by piece?_ She continued, “Then finish him through his eye slit, or under his arm into his heart. . . I would want a dagger. In case he grabbed me. A dagger up his sleeve would have helped Martell.”

“One weapon only per combatant in a trial by combat.”

“Martell used words as a weapon.”

“To great effect.”

“But he still died,” Gendry interjected.

The others looked at him. Gendry's eyes were bright as much from anger as from fever. He could see out of both of them, now, and the blue bruise was not as angry as the look in his eyes.

“He died. Like everyone who fights the Mountain. Like everyone who doesn’t fight the Mountain. Like that stable boy and the prince’s sister and her children and half the damn riverlands. You Lannisters!” He spat the name like an epithet, shaking with fury. “Who needs dragons or direwolves when you have monsters like that? Like you, Kingslayer!”

“I am no Gregor Clegane, boy,” Jaime answered him.

“You unleashed him. On smallfolk who had nothing to do with your war!”

“He was my father’s monster, not mine.”

“You’re all Lannisters. His crimes are yours.” Immediately, Gendry realized what he had said.

“Oh, and what are you?”

“I’m a bastard, not a Baratheon,” the boy said in disgust.

“If the king legitimized you, would you refuse it?”

Gendry looked sullenly into the fire, not answering, flames flickering in his eyes.

“You couldn’t refuse that honor, Ser Gendry, and it couldn’t be undone. Are you your father’s son? He started a war over a woman, you know. Who had anything to do with that, except Robert and Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark? They could have settled the matter in single combat. But no, your father rebelled. Like your ancestor, Lord Lyonel. The Trident turned red with blood before they met at the Ruby Ford. My father fought for yours in that war. The people of Kings Landing haven’t forgiven the Lannisters for sacking the city, have they? It was Robert’s favor Lord Tywin bought with Ser Gregor’s atrocities. Your father was more than happy to accept his bloody gifts. His hands were clean. His soul was not.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gendry muttered, chagrined and sulky.

“Yes,” Jaime replied. “I am.”


	13. Nights Pass

Jaime sang when he was on watch. His voice was nothing special, but he could carry a tune, and he hoped a search party of his westermen would hear him and find them. Jaime urged Podrick to sing as well, telling him a knight had to learn to use his voice to command troops. Brienne pointed out that wasn’t the same as singing, but when the boy clammed up, mutely shaking his head when asked for a song, Jaime made him go into the neighboring cave and serenade the walls while he discussed military theory by the fire with Brienne. Jaime’s logic was sound, though. When Brienne had the watch and the others were asleep, she tried singing a few bars of the easiest song she knew.

Men joke that every woman is a beauty in darkness, but as her voice raggedly prodded the heavy curtain of blackness, it still was not beautiful. _Nor my face_ , Brienne thought, feeling her ruined cheek with her fingers. She had not yet seen her new face in a mirror. Something almost like tears swam behind her eyes. They wandered to Jaime’s sleeping face and she recalled the touch of his lips on her scarred flesh. He is so beautiful, she thought. The dim light of the fire spun gold out of his shaggy beard, Lannister gold buried in the depths of a wet dark Tully sea. Brienne thought of another face so like and unlike the one in front of her: his sister, the queen regent. She had swept into Brienne’s tower cell with an imperious grace that marked her as Jaime’s twin before Brienne had worked out the resemblance in their faces.

“You are the Maid of Tarth?” said the queen.

“I am, your highness.”

“Lady Stark’s sworn sword.”

“I- I was, your highness.”

“My brother’s protector.”

Brienne’s tongue stuck in her mouth while the beautiful queen appraised her like an exotic animal at a fair. _I was caged_ , she recalled.

“You’re not any good at it, are you?” said the golden lioness. She had swept back out of the room, and just then the heavy oak and iron door between them had felt to Brienne like a shield rather than a prison.

How could one twin be so cold and the other so warm? There was a song about Lannister lions that Brienne didn’t like very much. How did it go? Something about proud lords and lions with long claws. A cat of a different coat. Jaime was that. _Cats purr. They curl up in your lap and purr and keep you warm_. The thought make Brienne warm all over as she gazed at Jaime. _And you pet them_.

A few days into Podrick’s exile, Jaime and Brienne were taking a break from their swordplay when he took her by the hand and led her to the entrance of the cave, stopping short of the water so their feet stayed dry.

“Listen,” he told her.

She listened.

“. . . now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall, and not a soul to hear. . .”

Podrick sang in a quavering but lovely, boyish voice. Jaime had a broad grin on his face.

“Now you have a singing squire. I bet Gendry’s not enjoying that tune.”

“I am not fond of it, myself. Why do you mislike him so?” asked Brienne.

“He’s the one who hates me. Why do you like him?”

“He’s my cousin. You may be rich in cousins. I have little enough family.”

“Is that why you joined Renly’s kingsguard? To protect your cousin? I don’t see you protecting Stannis or his daughter.”

Brienne let go of Jaime’s hand, and her left gripped Oathkeeper’s hilt. “I swore to avenge Renly,” she said. “I would die before serving that kinslayer.”

“But you would serve this sulky overgrown boy?” Jaime sneered.

“That’s not a question!” Brienne narrowed her eyes at Jaime. “Are you going to legitimize him? Who is Lord of Storm’s End?”

“Why in the seven hells would I do that? He was an apprentice to the best swordsmith in Kings Landing, did you know? The man who forged that lion’s head you’re fondling there. What kind of idiot leaves an opportunity like that to join a band of outlaws in the most devastated of the seven kingdoms? Clearly, it isn’t brains you follow to war.”

Brienne lifted Jaime by his shirtfront and slammed him against the wall. She started to speak but checked herself. _Jealousy is unbecoming of you_ , she almost said. The thought startled her, and she blushed in astonishment, nose to nose with Jaime as she pressed him hard against the rock.

“You still gape like a fish. A shame your hair isn’t gray. You could have impersonated the Blackfish and joined the Brotherhood with young Renly.”

Brienne dropped Jaime and stalked back to the candle where they had left their sticks. She threw one at him as he approached. “Take up your sword, ser,” she said.

Afterward, Jaime went to bathe in the cold lake. Brienne was shivering with sweat herself, and when he returned to the fire clad only in his cloak, she replaced him in the shallows, washing quickly. She hesitated while Podrick lay their wet clothes out to dry and Gendry built up the fire. Jaime would be sore on the morrow, and he had succeeded in giving her one or two bruises for the first time since he lost his hand. Gendry and Podrick were preparing their meal. Brienne gathered up her courage and sat behind Jaime. He hissed when she pressed her gooseflesh against his back. She almost pulled away, but he was so warm, and the wool of his soiled white cloak dried her skin. She wrapped her cloak around both of them. He took the edges in his hand and held it closed in front of him, dropping his own as he did so. When Brienne closed her arms around him under the cloak, she touched a patch of bare skin and they both shuddered. Jaime hugged his maimed arm against hers, and Brienne turned her cheek to the back of his neck, not wanting to meet anyone’s eye.

Podrick sang for them that evening, but he would have to wait for his reward. Brienne had found the nerve to wrap herself around Jaime, but then she lost it completely, and was too embarrassed to face her companions. Jaime could not look at her unless she let him, and Podrick would avert his eyes, but she could not stand to see what was in the eyes of the angry cousin she had thoughtlessly dragged into her orbit. She kept her face hidden and squeezed Jaime harder, with her arms and her thighs, when he urged her to eat, and spoke not a word when he tried to provoke her into conversation. When he gave up and engaged the boys in a writing lesson-- on weapons and armor, since Podrick didn’t get his military discussion-- she relaxed her grip enough for him to write awkwardly in the sand with a long stick while she held her cloak closed about his waist. _This is past the point of ridiculousness_ , Brienne knew, but she did not care. She wanted to hide behind Jaime, wrapped in a shared cloak forever. Still, she sensed Gendry’s accusatory eyes, and Jeyne’s-- the girl she killed. The healer who saved her life and set her arm so well. The feisty little innkeep's big sister. Brienne dreamed she was under an elm tree, lifting Jaime so he could be freed from his noose, while Podrick and Gendry hung nearby, dying. When she woke, her leg and buttocks had fallen asleep and her arms were locked around Jaime as fast as mussels on a wharf. Someone had put the wool cap on her head and pulled it down over her ears. Jaime felt her wake and massaged his legs, gently extricating himself from Brienne’s grasp and putting on his smallclothes.

“Do you want to hold onto me for the rest of the night, Brienne?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“My leg is asleep,” she replied stupidly.

“You’re going to get cold,” he observed, dropping her clothes in her lap before adding wood to the fire and dressing himself. She hugged her cloak tightly around her, bereft of Jaime’s warmth.

“My legs are asleep,” Brienne heard herself say again. Jaime’s concerned face appeared in front of her. He started massaging her numb foot, sending pins shooting through it.

“You should stand up, Brienne,” he said, grasping her arm.

Dumbly, let him pull her to her feet, and fell into his arms when her legs buckled. Slowly, blood trickled back into her limbs.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said.

Jaime held her smallclothes for her as if she were a child, and she stepped into them, and then her breeches. He pulled the laces tight and held them until she got the hint and tied them with her own hands, clumsy as a child trying to recall how it was done. _What is wrong with me?_ she wondered. “Mine too, Brienne, if you please,” Jaime asked her, “I don’t want to wake Podrick.” She managed his laces, too, though when she tugged gently at them, his cock fought against her. He was more embarrassed than she was, for once. When Jaime slipped her cloak off her shoulders and let it drop, she hugged herself against the chill. He slipped her shirt over her head and had to coax her to put her arms through the sleeves. He left her jerkin unfastened and wrapped her cloak back around her shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Brienne?” he asked again.

She could only look at him mournfully and shake her head. She felt so cold. _Cold._ That had been Renly’s last word, as his eyes emptied of life.

“Go to sleep, Brienne.”

She nodded. And remained standing. Jaime woke Podrick and told him to take the watch. He folded his cloak, lay it on the ground and sat down on it, pulling Brienne to him. She realized her hands were balled into fists. She opened them, closing them again around the white wool of Jaime’s tunic. He pulled her on top of him and held her there. Brienne wept. She wept tears she thought she had spent in a cottage in Pennytree and on Jaime’s shoulder under a snowy sky. She wept for Long Jeyne Heddle and for Gendry and Lady Catelyn, and for her father, who she might never see again, and even for Ser Hyle, who she wanted never to see again. She wept for the man she loved, the jealous, generous, gentle, infuriating man. The cat of a different coat, with a different kind of honor, who fought with her and for her and warmed her heart and her body. Her body shook and her tears were an ugly, snotty mess that dropped and oozed onto the sand next to Jaime’s ear while his lips murmured soothing words against her uglier face. He ran his fingers through her hair, popping off the wool cap. Brienne used it to wipe her nose, knowing she would regret it the next day. Finally, she had no more tears, and fell into a warm, dreamless sleep.


	14. Upstream

Brienne woke the next day with cramps in her guts. So did Jaime and Podrick. Gendry got better as the others grew worse. His eye turned from blue to orange while they spent miserable hours over the latrine. They dug a new one and buried the old, Jaime’s golden hand doubling as a shovel.

“We’ll all eat fish soup,” Jaime declared. Gendry had eaten only fish soup during his fever. When he started eating grilled fish with the others, he cramped up as well. “And only collect water upstream of the lake. The lake water is fouled.”

When Podrick became too weak to check the traps, Brienne swam into the lake to fetch them, dumping the fish by the fire and staking the traps where the water reached her knees, so she could check them without removing her shirt. They ate fish soup that day, but grilled the rest of their catch until it was dry and crispy, for travel, and did the same the next morning.

They left their lakeside grotto for the running water of the neighboring cave and traveled slowly upstream, searching for an exit. The coracle was piled high with roots, topped with a fish trap and tied down with rope. They broke wood and stuffed it into the scribe’s pack alongside the candles, leaving barely any behind. Jaime carried the pack and one of the large candles to light their way. Brienne carried Podrick. Gendry’s leg was still too painful to carry his weight, and he leaned heavily on Jaime. They towed the coracle between them on the water.

Being on the move should have been encouraging, but Brienne found the way gloomy and strange, and she worried about Podrick and Gendry. Their candle made a little island of light, but all around them stretched an unending sea of darkness. Jaime tried to cheer them up by singing, but it only served to remind her of Nimble Dick and his bloody end and lonely grave beneath a weirwood tree. The gloom and Gendry got to Jaime, and soon they were traveling to the sound of their footsteps and the occasional splash when someone stepped in the water. They stopped often to relieve themselves, but not long enough to make a warming fire. When they finally made camp, the fire seemed colder than the one in their grotto, which became cozy in Brienne’s memory.

The travelers slept huddled together. One of them stayed awake to tend a fire, some nights only a candle flame. They saw less and less driftwood as they traveled upstream. Before, they had watched for rescuers. Now they watched for unknown danger. _What lives in this darkness?_ Brienne wondered as she peered blindly into it. _How can anything live here?_ Blind white fish lived in the stream, however, and kept them fed, along with Jeyne’s jar of honey. If they could survive here, something else might.

When they were both off watch, Jaime and Brienne fell asleep one curled around the other, or else holding hands. She sometimes woke with his stiff cock pressed against her. When Jaime woke, he would pull it away. If he didn’t get up, he turned his hips or tucked a knee so it ceased to intrude upon her. It was a courtesy and a relief, but it disheartened her too. _I will not take you against your will_ , he had whispered to her. Laying next to him, Brienne often thought of Jaime’s lover. When he returned to Kings Landing, he would not turn his cock away from his sister. Sometimes, when he was wrapped around her, she imagined what he would do to his icy queen. What he might do it to her, if she asked him. Once she clutched his tunic so hard Jaime woke and asked her what was wrong. _I want you. I want a man who loves another, and is sworn to yet another_ , she had not said. He had twisted his hips away from her and gathered her head to his chest, stroking her hair. _The Evenstar’s daughter is no concubine_ , Brienne had to tell herself then, as she listened to his heart beat. _I am the heir of Tarth. I was a kingsguard. I am not a stand-in for Cersei Lannister. I am not the-- the kingslayer’s whore. That’s unfair_ , her heart whimpered in reply. _His name is Jaime._

A green line ringed the mottled orange bruise around Gendry’s eye the night Brienne thought Podrick would die. She lay curled around the boy while Gendry watched her from Podrick’s other side, close enough to touch. Her back was cold. Jaime was sitting by a small fire at her feet, keeping watch. Suddenly, she could not bear her cousin’s eyes, his discolored face as Renly’s might have looked rotting in the grave. She could not bear to watch Podrick die. Jaime and Gendry should be with their brothers in arms, not trapped there with her. _I should have joined my own brother and sisters when the noose was put around my neck_ , she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. She barely remembered Galladon’s funeral, but she remembered the sorrow that had filled the household. He had been a big, bright, golden boy. Nothing like Podrick. No one else would mourn him. They might not even be able to bury him. The ground they lay on was hard and cold, a slippery pale cave rock that left them sore and stiff when they slept on it and forced them to slow their pace almost to a crawl to avoid dropping the boys. In other places, the ground was a hard yellow clay. The soft sand of the lake and stream’s end was far behind them.

Brienne woke. _Podrick_. He lay dying when she fell asleep. _When next I look at him, he will be dead_. She extricated herself from Jaime’s embrace and turned around. The boy was still alive. He seemed so small and fragile, much younger than he was. After Brienne relieved herself, she returned to the fire and sat next to Gendry. He was staring into the embers, and she remembered what the child at the Crossroads Inn had said. He worshiped the red god of fire.

“Would you fight the Mountain for Sansa Stark?” he demanded abruptly.

“Yes,” she replied with a start, “If I had to.”

“Why?”

“Ser Jaime made an oath to Lady Stark. To return her daughters to her.”

“Her daughters wouldn’t want to live in a cave like us, with their dead mother.”

“No. I promised Ser Jaime I would find Sansa and get her somewhere safe.”

“Nowhere is safe.”

 _The Vale, perhaps. Dorne? Tarth?_ Brienne did not argue.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did the Kingslayer send you to find Sansa?”

“His duty is to the king, so he asked me to go in his stead, to fulfill our oaths to Lady Catelyn. And he thought her other daughter was dead.”

“No, why did he send anyone? An oath is nothing to him.”

“It’s not nothing. Maybe you should ask him.”

“The queen is offering a reward for Sansa or the Imp.”

“She will not have Sansa. The girl did not kill Joffrey.”

“How do you know?”

“I do not believe she would do such a thing,” Brienne said stubbornly.

Gendry looked skeptically at Brienne.

“The brotherhood was looking for her sister, Arya,” Brienne said.

Gendry poked at the fire with a stick.

“Did you meet her? Did she die at Saltpans?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you met her?”

Gendry put on a stubborn face and kept playing with the fire.

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you think she might be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she one of the children at the Crossroads Inn?”

Gendry pushed the stick into the fire. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "sworn to yet another" refers to King Tommen and Jaime's Kingsguard vows.


	15. The Stair

Podrick didn’t die. Gendry’s leg healed enough for him to lean on a sword instead of Jaime when the footing was sure. His eye cycled through sick looking shades of orange, green and yellow as they passed through caverns lined with teeth of queer white stone that sprouted from the ground and ceiling. They brought Jaime to mind of the jaws and intestine of some great wyrm. _We’re shitty enough to get pushed out the monster’s arse_ , he thought, though they washed their soiled clothes and themselves when they could manage it. Dampness was a foe that laughed at their feeble campfires. Stone gave way to clay that stained Jaime’s wool earthy shades of red and yellow. _Lannister dirt. Was that a good sign?_

Podrick recovered, as did the rest of them. Gendry’s face returned to normal. His leg strengthened. They ran out of wood and burned down their rope, spare cloth, and dried herbs to cook their fish. The coracle was taken apart and burned. Even their cloaks were shortened for fuel. Jaime assessed the state of their candles one night, marveling at how slowly they burned. _Thank the gods!_ he thought, _Perhaps the Crone does exist!_ The clay beneath their feet became dark stone. Then, one day, they came across a sheepskin and some wood, trapped in between boulders, apparently washed there by the flood that had provided them ample driftwood at the beginning of their journey. The next day, they found the washed up remnants of a camp trapped in a bend in the stream: rotted wood, a crushed fish trap, tangled rope and fishing line, a mangled shelter made of sticks, hemp, and goatskin, a threadbare towel. None of it would burn, but they collected it anyway and hoped it would dry. The next day, they found a broken lantern that looked older than Aegon’s conquest. Finally, they came upon a pool at the base of a gentle waterfall whose top they could not see. A narrow stair had been hewn into the rock beside the falls, its ancient steps worn smooth and slippery. That night, they set their fish trap and hooks in the pool. The next morning, Brienne and Podrick scouted up the stair.

The boy went first. If Brienne fell on top of him, they’d have more broken bones to deal with. Podrick clambered ahead of her like a spider, and soon they disappeared. Jaime heard Gendry behind him as he gazed up into the blackness where Brienne’s light had been. The young man was sick of being wounded, and was exercising his leg. He paced back and forth, working out his limp, sometimes flexing his leg against a large stone and pushing against it. Jaime followed his example and drew his sword, carving arcs and small circles in the dark with his left hand.

Jaime was teaching Gendry to write new words with a dagger in goatskin when Brienne and Podrick returned hours later in darkness. They had reached the top of the falls and followed a very steep stream farther on. They reported that the stair disappeared in places, where they climbed up the slick waterway itself, though the water flowed gently enough. Podrick had dropped the candle in one of these places, however, and Brienne caught up to him while he was searching blindly for it. They were unable to recover the candle and had to feel their way back. It had taken them much longer to return than to go up.

That night their wood dried enough to make a tiny campfire. The following morning, they mounted the stair. Podrick led the way, much more slowly this time, carrying a candle. Brienne brought up the rear in almost total darkness. Gendry was second in line. Most of the way was rather narrow, which worked in their favor. Gendry was able to use his strong arms to aid his climb, and if one of them slipped, it was not hard to stop the fall. When the stair disappeared, they passed the candle to the person with the best footing, so the others could use their hands to clamber up the slippery cascades. Still, they progressed slowly. Eventually, the way widened. The cascades became less steep and punctuated by small pools. At one pool, they found a neat fire pit and a footstool with a tin cup sitting on it. A tallow candle and a chunk of soap rested on a dry ledge.

The next pool was the last. The burbling of the water faded behind them as they continued up the stair. Finally, Podrick and his candle came to a stop. The others joined him at the top of the stair. Jaime looked up. No stars. No snow. The ground was dirt, dry and rocky. The air was cold, but fresh. He guessed they were in yet another cave, but near to the surface, and almost certainly occupied.

“No guards, my lady. Ser,” Podrick noted.

Still, they explored the new place warily. Some of the caves they had traversed contained forests of pale stone columns. This one housed a forest of pale weirwood roots, thick as young trees. The smaller roots had been broken off, some undoubtedly burned to warm them in the past days. In one place, the smaller roots were still attached to the main tap root, and goat skins had been tied to them to make a small shelter, large enough only for someone Podrick’s size.

They loosened their swords in their scabbards and warily approached the shelter. Podrick held the candle in the entryway, illuminating a pile of sheepskins atop a lumpy mattress. When he pulled the topmost off the pile, the rest muttered sleepily, and he jumped back. They shifted. “Begone,” the thing said clearly, before muttering again.

“Gladly,” replied Jaime, “only we don’t know the way out.”

The skins parted and an aged, white face with red eyes peered at them. Podrick’s eyes became huge as saucers. A tiny old woman blinked and squinted in irritation at them. When she saw Brienne, her eyes became as big as Podrick’s. Surprise, fear, anger, sadness, longing: Jaime saw these race across the dwarf’s lined face in quick succession.

“The ghost of High Heart,” Gendry said.

“How did you get here?” she asked them.

“We came up the stair,” said Brienne, while the old woman stared at her. “We fell into an underground lake and followed a stream until we came to the stair by the falls. We found a coracle and fishing gear in a grotto by the lake. And the remains of a camp near the pool at the bottom of the falls. They were yours, weren’t they?”

The woman noticed the fish trap slung over Jaime’s shoulder. “Aye,” she said. “Did you bring me any fish?”

Brienne pulled a crispy fish out of her pocket and offered it to the woman. “In the morning,” she said, turning it down. “Begone now, child.” She looked ready to weep. “Leave me in peace.”


	16. High Heart

Gray-gold light and Brienne’s fingers woke Jaime. He lay against her, his head under her chin, holding her hands against his chest, and smiled. She was pretending to sleep. If he pretended to sleep as well, she might start stroking his chest again. Instead, she got up. Jaime sighed. Such tricks did not work so well in the light of day, it seemed. He was left staring at Brienne’s dark and stormy cousin. It annoyed him that when Brienne woke Podrick to take her watch, she always took the boy’s warm place between Jaime and Gendry. Elsewise, Jaime managed to put himself or Podrick between the two cousins when they slept. The little squire was often given the warmest place in the sleeping arrangement, separating Jaime from his lady more than he would wish.

But dawn’s rosy fingers tickled him, and Jaime could not stay irritated for long. They were all awake now, stretching and drinking in the dim light, getting a better look at their surroundings. They were once again in a large cave, this one a forest of broadly spaced weirwood roots. Overhead was a canopy of closely braided white roots hung with old man’s beard. Some roots didn’t reach the bottom of the cave and hung in the air like giant icicles. They were dotted with large black mushroom-like fungi, which had been stripped from the bottom few feet. Jaime guessed the old woman harvested and ate them. A few clumps of short broad leafed plants grew in the cold, hard ground. About a third of the cave was formed of gray rock and barren of roots. It was from thin crevasses in the stony wall that light and fresh air filtered into the cave.

“What place is this?” asked Brienne.

“High Heart,” said Gendry. “We must be underneath High Heart.”

“You called the old woman the ghost of High Heart,” said Jaime.

“That’s what she’s called,” he said, “She has dreams.”

“There must be a way out, if she lives here,” Jaime observed. They made an exploration and found an exit. The cleft in the stone narrowed with height and was only wide enough to enter at the bottom. Jaime followed Podrick into the opening on his hands and knees and darkness closed in on them once again. Soon the cleft narrowed even more, and Jaime slithered on his belly, then on his side, awkwardly propelling himself forward by kicking and pulling against the walls, scraping and tearing his clothes on the rough rock. He saw the way ahead lighten and pressed ahead. In his eagerness for freedom and sunlight, Jaime heedlessly forced his way against the unyielding rock, and became stuck fast. Pinned in place, he realized Brienne was no longer behind him. She was too big to get that far. So was Jaime, it seemed. He had dragged himself against a point of rock too forcefully, and the small, sharp ridge was jabbed into his buttock like a spear.

“Ser Jaime?” Podrick was in front of him, blocking the light.

“I’m stuck.”

“Do you want me to pull you, ser?” the boy asked.

Jaime didn’t think the boy was strong enough to move him, but considered. He didn’t know where High Heart was, whether there were any outlaws in the area, or how far to the nearest castle. He scratched at the ground beneath him. The passageway would need to be expanded for Brienne and Gendry to crawl out. Down into the dirt, most likely. If the old woman had a hammer and chisel, Gendry could chip away at the narrowest parts of the rock, but that would probably be slower. Though it might help in his present predicament. Meanwhile, the narrow entrance protected the old woman from reavers and wolves harassing the riverlands.

“Ser?”

“No, don’t pull me.” Jaime flexed his buttock and shifted his weight, but succeeded only in aggravating his wound.

“Can you push me?”

“I’ll try, ser.” Podrick put his hands on Jaime’s shoulders and pushed, to no effect.

“Is there enough room for you to climb over me?” Jaime asked.

“I’ll try, ser.”

“Don’t get stuck!”

“I won’t, ser.”

Podrick slithered over Jaime. “I made it, ser!”

“Now pull.”

Podrick grabbed one of Jaime’s ankles and pulled.

“Stop! Stop!” Jaime cried, tears pricking his eyes.

“I’m sorry, ser.”

“Part of the wall is stabbing me in the arse. Can you climb over my legs and push my hip off it?”

Podrick could only use one hand, jammed sideways as he was in the crevasse. He apologized as he cupped Jaime’s arse and wiggled his fingers in order to find the spear of rock. He split his fingers around it and pushed against Jaime, didn’t have enough leverage or strength to push him off. Jaime gritted his teeth. The boy twisted his arm around and tried again with his palm pressed against the rock, until his hand covered the pointy ridge and freed Jaime’s wounded flesh. Jaime sighed in relief and tried to move backwards, but now Podrick was in the way, pressing against his legs.

“I think you’re clear now, Ser Jaime,” he said.

“My hip is, but I can’t get past you.”

Podrick moved out of the way and the rock slipped back into Jaime’s hip. He hissed.

“I’ll be right back, ser,” Podrick said, and Jaime heard him crawl away. He tapped his forehead against the rock in frustration and clenched his hip, which eased the pain a bit. True to his word, Podrick returned right away. _The boy should have a spider or a scorpion as his sigil_ , Jaime thought, _the way he scampers around rock_. Podrick had told him the tale of the Whispers one night. The rock he threw could be a scorpion’s sting of sorts. Jaime felt something cold and hard rubbing his arse, and would have startled if he had any room to move. Podrick had fetched his golden hand and was working it between Jaime and the rock. He placed it where his own hand had been, and then skittered away. Jaime pulled with his heels and pushed with his hand, twisted and flexed and scooted, and finally he was free. The hand dug uncomfortably into his back and clouted him on the ear as he scooted past it. He tried to toss it over himself to Podrick, but it fell short in the constricted space, smacking him on his wounded arse. Jaime cursed.

“I’ve got your hand, ser,” Podrick called from his feet.

Jaime slithered backwards out of the passage, cold and dirty and bleeding, and got to his feet. Between Brienne and Gendry, old red eyes peered at him. The little woman was holding a jar with a bit of greasy cloth sticking out of it, a lantern at her feet.

“Did you make it all the way out?” the old woman asked.

“No. I got stuck. The boy did, though.”

“At least I don’t have to waste any butter on you.”

Jaime had a hard time sitting comfortably while they broke their fast. Afterward, he found himself belly-down on a soft, if slightly smelly, sheepskin while Brienne mended his torn breeches and the little woods witch washed his wound and then picked tiny pebbles out of his arse with a burnt needle and her long fingernails. Jaime clenched the wool in his fist and watched Brienne’s hands work one needle through his torn breeches as another scraped deeper against his raw flesh. _Brienne has such gentle hands_ , he thought. _She would be a wonderful healer_. A corner of his mouth turned up when she blushed, her pretty eyes fixed on the work in her efficient hands. They had been underground so long, it was doubly sweet to see her blush in the muted light. Gendry laughed. _That’s odd_ , Jaime thought. Gendry never laughed. It took a moment for him to realize the old woman was making ribald commentary while his butt and legs twitched and jerked involuntarily under her needle.

“That’s enough, grandmother,” Brienne admonished her, “Do you want me to hold him down?”

The old woman cackled. “Aye, girl. I would enjoy that as much as you.”

Brienne looked confused, but put Jaime’s breeches down and moved towards him.

“Sit down, girl. I was just teasing. I’m almost done. If there’s anything deeper--” she paused, inspecting Jaime’s twitching butt, “--and I don’t think there is, it will have to work itself to the surface, and you can look for it in a few weeks.”

Brienne sat down and took Jaime’s breeches back in her hands, flushing hotly. She stabbed her finger with her needle, drawing a drop of blood.

“Do you have something in your finger, girl?” the old woman asked.

Brienne sucked on her fingertip and glared at her. Jaime enjoyed seeing that glare directed at someone other than himself, though he didn’t appreciate the woman’s mocking tone. Brienne had been stubbornly brave, but sapped of spirit, the day they’d been in the company of the Hound and his one-eyed friend, and she was more like to look at her cousin with guilt, not anger. The dwarf quashed Jaime’s enjoyment by rubbing something that stung into his scratches and then pressing a piece of clean linen thinly coated in honey over his arse-cheek. Jaime thought she spent rather too much time pressing the linen onto his backside. An uncomfortable combination of dirty, clean, and sticky, he watched Brienne continue to glare at the old woman, her hands slowly balling around his bloody breeches.

“All done,” she said finally, punctuating her declaration with a loud smack on his arse that made Jaime, Brienne, and Podrick jump and Gendry rumble with laughter. Humiliated, Jaime buried his face in the fleece, cursing. She had slapped his unwounded cheek. If she had slapped the other one, he would be wiping away tears of pain in the soft wool. Jaime did not feel grateful, though.

“What an old she-goat!” he exclaimed, when the dwarf had gone to show Gendry and Podrick where to dig their latrine. Brienne was still glowering. Distracted from her mending, her work had become quite bad, and Jaime took it out of her hands. “Here. Let me do that.”

She turned her disapproving gaze on him. Through him, actually.

“I’m not the one who smacked me on the arse, Brienne. She’s over there.”

Working her jaw angrily, Brienne’s upper body was in a tense fighter’s crouch, seated though she was. Jaime unraveled her angry stitches and calmly sewed the tear shut, pleased with her displeasure. He worked awkwardly, using his golden hand as a thimble and then stretching the torn fabric closed against it between his stump and a bare foot, so he could stitch it with his left hand. The repair turned out remarkably well for a man who had lost his dominant hand. Brienne only had to tie off the thread when he was finished.

“You’re good at this,” Brienne observed, her glare now a questioning look.

“Of course I am.”

“Who did you squire for? Did he tear his clothes a lot?”

“Old Lord Sumner Crakehall. No.”

Brienne’s look turned back into an irritated glare.

“Cersei and I would switch places sometimes when we were children. I came by this skill same as you, at the elbow of a septa.”

“Did you learn to embroider, too?”

“Maybe.”

“I should have let you mend the coracle.”

“You did a fine job.”

Brienne’s eyes widened, “Wait-- You switched places with your sister? You wore her dresses? And her septa didn’t notice?”

“She noticed my sewing was worse than usual and my manner more cheerful.” Jaime almost japed at what a beautiful little girl he made, but glanced at Brienne’s homely face and held his tongue. He could tell she was trying to picture him as a little boy in a dress. Jaime grinned.

Brienne laughed.


	17. High Heart, continued

The old woman didn’t give them her name. Brienne and Podrick called her grandmother. Jaime and Gendry called her Nan, short for the old nanny goat. She did give them use of a spade and a hatchet. In exchange, Podrick climbed up the weirwood roots with a loop of rope, a knife, and a sack tied to his waist, and harvested all the mushrooms he could reach while the others tunneled beneath the rock.

Nan had a tall pile of thick sheepskins that had been given her in exchange for past services as a woods witch. Each of them took two or three to make themselves comfortable and warm, and nightfall found them sitting-- or laying, in Jaime’s case-- around the cook fire while Nan simmered mushroom soup. She ate the last of their fish, and Jaime thought mushroom soup the best meal he had ever tasted.

“You know things,” Gendry said to Nan as they supped. “Your dreams tell you what’s happening in the world. And what’s going to happen?”

“I do, boy. They do. What’s it you want to know?”

“Don’t you know?” Gendry asked, hesitantly.

Nan cackled and caught Jaime’s eye. “Do you want to know your morrows, young man?” she asked him.

“No,” he answered, unsmiling. Jaime had had enough of others telling him his future. Cersei and his father, Robert, Barristan Selmy, even Catelyn Stark had told him his morrows. He would make his own, now, and cared nothing what this ghost of High Heart had to say about it. He glanced at Brienne.

“I seek Sansa Stark,” she said, “Can you tell me where to find her?”

“I dreamt of a mockingbird that laid eggs in a falcon’s nest,” said Nan “When they hatched, they pecked and pushed the young falcon out of the nest.”

Brienne looked thoughtfully at the old woman and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. _A mockingbird and a falcon. Baelish and Arryn?_ Littlefinger was Lysa Arryn’s widower and Lord Protector of the Vale now. How convenient for Baelish, thought Jaime, that his unbalanced bride had been murdered so soon after their marriage by an insignificant singer.

“And her sister,” added Gendry. “Where is she?”

Nan’s face darkened and she gave the smith a hard look. “The direwolf hunts,” she said, “and hungers.” She turned her red eyes back to Jaime. “I dreamt of a lioness who turned on her mates and devoured her golden cubs. I dreamt of a burning rose bush. The golden blooms turned to ash, but the fire hardened its thorns and smoked out vipers nesting beneath its roots. I dreamt of a raven with a heart in its claws, bleeding to death beneath an elm tree. I dreamt of a stone hind that was consumed by fire. Oh, how she wept! Her tears turned to steam and her stone heart cracked and crumbled. I woke in such sorrow, I cried until morning.”

Jaime frowned. There was too much fire in the old woman’s dreams.

“A kiss now, Ser Lion, for the dreams,” she demanded.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. _She cannot be serious_.

“Are you a thief, to take my dreams and hospitality without payment?”

“I was not the one who asked for your dreams,” Jaime said, looking pointedly at Gendry.

Gendry looked horrified. “The brotherhood pays her with a song. The one about Jenny of Oldstones.”

“Aye, that’ll do for payment. I don’t see your singer about.”

Gendry and Brienne looked at Podrick, who was suddenly shy.

“Oh, no,” said Jaime, “You pay, Ser Gendry.”

“I don’t know the words,” he protested.

“If you insist.” Jaime paid for the dreams. It was a beautiful and melancholy tune. Nan closed her eyes and hugged herself while he sang, and Brienne’s face softened. When the song ended, they remained in subdued silence for a moment.

“You owe me for that, Ser Gendry,” Jaime said, looking steadily at the young man. It took a moment for Gendry to realize what had happened, but he acknowledged the debt with a sullen nod.

The next day, Podrick joined them in tunneling and Nan left the cave to collect firewood. They worked quickly, hope in their hearts, rotating positions so someone was always digging and another resting. The confined space prevented them all from working at once. The person in front chopped the hard dirt with the hatchet to loosen it, then used the spade and his hands to pull it a short distance backward, then crawled forward again, leaving the person behind to sweep it onto a skin and haul it out of the tunnel to a slowly growing pile just inside the cave. Near mid-day, they ran into the first patch of buried rock.

Fortunately, the old woman did have a chisel. She had used it over the years to open up the tightest parts of the passageway as she aged and became less and less able to squirm through, but it had become rusted and dull in the last few years. Gendry had spent the previous evening tediously sharpening it on a whetstone. Nan had no hammer, so the butt end of the hatchet had to serve. They tunneled, and sharpened, and blew dirt out of their noses, and would fall asleep with sore arms and torn fingers.

“You knew Jenny of Oldstones,” Brienne said that night, after Jaime and Podrick sang for them. It was not a question.

“Aye.”

“Would you tell me about her? And the others? Duncan Targaryen? Gaemon and his siblings?”

The old woman pulled her blankets closer about her shoulders. “No, child.”

Brienne was crestfallen.

“You know the songs, girl.”

“You know more verses,” argued Jaime, “Tell us the tales, and I’ll sing them for you.” _As best I can, which will make a good jest_. He could carry a tune, not compose one.

“Leave me be.” she replied. “Don’t turn those eyes on me, girl. I’m no princeling to bewitch.”

“You are the woods witch, grandmother.”

“I’m no one’s grandmother.”

“Jenny was.”

“No. She died.”

“You know things. Your dreams must have told you she had a granddaughter.”

“She was never a grandmother, and neither am I. Finish your tunneling and begone from here, girl. I’ve danced with ghosts too long to enjoy the living anymore, especially you.”

Brienne would not be put off. “Did you know Gaemon married?” she asked.

Nan sighed. “I know his wife birthed a daughter. . . who married the Evenstar.”

“I want to know about my family,” Brienne insisted.

“They died. I failed them, and they died.” The old woman began to weep, and Brienne left her to her memories.

They broke out the next evening, just after sunset. Tired and dirty, the travelers stood under the sky for the first time in weeks. It was filled with stars, beautiful, cold and clear.

“We should get some rest,” Brienne said, “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and maybe a long night.”

Sighing, they crawled back inside. They had put the pieces of rock Gendry and Brienne chipped out of the tunnel in the scribe’s sturdy pack, and now Brienne pushed it into the tunnel so wolves could not surprise them in their sleep.

Jaime stood by the bathing pool, intently studying the lichens growing on the wall in front of him. Brienne was cleaning and dressinghis wound, as she had done the last two evenings, after the others took turns quickly washing the day’s dirt off in the cold water. Brienne bathed last, pretending not to notice that Jaime kept an eye on her from the top of the stair. She was not likely to drown or freeze in the small pool, but Jaime didn’t quite trust her not to be taken from him in one of those ways. Tonight, she was unsettled. They would leave at dawn, and Nan had refused again to talk of her ancestors.

“She’s a crazy old woman, Brienne, living in the past in a hole in a hill.”

Brienne pressed the dressing against his arse a bit too hard, making Jaime wince.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said as she moved to tied his laces, carefully avoiding his cock.

“I miss you, Brienne,” Jaime said dolefully.

“I’m right here,” she replied, confused.

“Are you? You’re not here with me anymore, Brienne.” After Nan had given them sheepskins to keep them warm at night, Brienne had started sleeping apart from the others. The boys were content to follow suit, burrowing beneath their warm fleeces, but Jaime missed Brienne’s body next to his. She bedded down too far away even for him to reach out and chastely hold her hand, as he had done sometimes when Podrick lay sick between them. And when he fluffed his bedding out during the day and moved it closer to hers, by the time they went to sleep, she had somehow moved out of his reach again. She was cooler towards him during the day, too. Companionable silence had turned into awkward cooperation. “What did I do to lose you, my lady?”

“Was I ever yours?” she asked. She had gotten better at hiding her thoughts.

“It felt like it.”

Her jaw muscles flexed and her brow furrowed like a bloodhound’s, but she said nothing.

“Are my sins too visible in daylight, Brienne? All knights are honorable in the dark, even the kingslayer? Is that it?”

“Don’t mock me, Jaime.”

“Brienne. My lady.” Jaime reached out to her, took her hand in his. Their bodies always spoke truly to one another. “Brienne,” he said again, touching her face with this other hand. His ghost hand. The ruin of her cheek. _My hand haunts her cheek_ , he thought. _How fitting_. She jerked away slightly before leaning into his forearm, and he tried to caress her with his stump. She closed her eyes and brushed her lips and her broken nose against his skin before thinking better of it and stepping away from his touch. Her beautiful eyes were hurt and sad. _Because of me._

“The lord commander of the kingsguard has no lady,” she said.

_That was true enough_. Jaime Lannister was forbidden to love in the light of day. Certainly not the honorable Maid of Tarth. When they reached Riverrun, he need never see her again. Tommen needed him. Heartsick, Jaime started past Brienne.

She caught him by the waist.

“Jaime.”

“Brienne,” he murmured.

Silence.

“Yes, my lady. . . How can I be of service?” Being so close to Brienne was starting to be too much for him. _Ask, and I don’t know how to refuse you_.

“I. . . You. . . you were . . . ” She tripped over her words and started again. “I saw you . . . ” Brienne’s hand finished the sentence for her, letting go of his waist to brush against the front of his breeches before she turned her face away, red as a beet.

“Ah.” _So much for being discreet_. When had she caught him out? How long had she watched him? Why hadn’t she come forward and wrapped her hand around his and kissed him senseless while he finished? _Get a hold of yourself, Jaime_.

“Did I frighten you?”

She gave a little shake of her head, then worked her jaw as if chewing cud.

“I offended you?”

She chewed her cud, but said nothing.

“You want me to stop?”

Cud.

“You . . . want me to lay with you?”

Brienne froze.

“Brienne. I have only one hand left to me. If you crush it, I will miss sparring with you more than I can say.” _I already do_. They had not sparred since they left the underground lake.

Brienne let go of his hand and avoided his heated gaze. They stood near each other awkwardly, not touching.

“Jaime,” Brienne said finally. “When you . . .” She brushed the front of his breeches again, feather light. “Who do you think of?”

“You. I think of you, Brienne.”

She took a deep breath, still not meeting his eyes. “At night, when you lay next to me, and, and . . .”

“Harden?” _Like I am now, you mean?_

She glanced at his breeches and looked away again, acutely embarrassed, but soldiered on. “When . . . that . . . at night, who were you thinking of?”

“You, Brienne. As I am now.” Jaime looked into her averted eyes and brushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind a flaming ear.

“And your sister? Your lover? When do you think of her?”

Jaime’s cock softened. “She’s not my lover anymore.”

Brienne chewed on his reply. “Does she know that?”

_More than I ever did_ , Jaime thought bitterly. “Yes.”

Brienne looked at him then, disbelieving.

_Still!_ _How can she--_ “Do you still think so ill of me, Brienne? That I would lie to you? About this?”

They glared at each other now, four eyes full of hurt and anger. Jealousy. Desire. Love.

“Yes, Brienne. She knows. We haven’t been the same since I returned to Kings Landing.”

Brienne looked into the darkness. Jaime took her hand. Her fingers twitched uncertainly.

“Brienne. I swear by the Maiden, by the Warrior, by the sword I gave you: I haven’t touched Cersei since the day we arrived in Kings Landing. We can barely stand each other anymore.” He stroked her palm with his thumb and watched her face.

“What did you see in her?” she asked him.

_I don’t know_. “An illusion. A lie.” _A Lannister lie._ _The most dangerous kind_. “What I wanted to see.”

Brienne’s jaw worked. Her face was unreadable. _Her eyes,_ _on the other hand,_ . . .

She slipped from his fingers and fled up the stair.


	18. The Hour of the Wolf

At sunrise, they filled in the outward end of the tunnel with rock, packing it with dirt Podrick had shoveled to the outside of the hill in their eagerness to finish. Nan was there to ensure she could fit through the passage they left. _Not to see us off_ , Brienne thought. She was tougher than she looked, but she was still a wizened old woman, sure to die this winter. _Unless she has real magic in her_. The afterthought made Brienne uneasy. She had seen a shadow kill a king and a dead woman command hard men. Nan’s survival would be less strange. Either way, it was too late. Brienne wondered if Nan would have been more forthcoming to her mother. Brienne’s mother had been plain, she knew, but not ugly: womanly, and a trueborn Targaryen. Did those things matter to the red-eyed dwarf? She had known Jenny of Oldstones when Duncan Targaryen courted her. She was at court while Gaemon grew from a babe into a married man. She had been near the family when they died, near enough Brienne had heard tell she died with them. Perhaps she had heard their suffering cries and seen their burned bodies. _She was my great-grandmother’s friend. What is it like_ , Brienne wondered as she watched Nan order the boys around, _to have a friend?_

Jaime was in front of the tunnel mouth speaking to Nan. _Don’t turn those eyes on me. I am no a princeling to bewitch_. That was all the old woman had given her, and unwillingly. Brienne could not help but treasure those bitter words and what they implied, at the same time loathing the pathetic, feeble vanity they inspired. Jaime turned his eyes on her. She blushed. _Did the bewitching Jenny of Oldstones blush this easily?_ Brienne doubted it. She stuffed certain thoughts into a mental purse and knotted it tight, willing them secure.

When the entrance to Nan’s home was again just a narrow crack in the side of the hill, they took their leave. The ghost of High Heart hoarded her memories, but she was generous, if graceless, in her hospitality. She gave them her hatchet, saying she was too old to use it. She had refused their gift of Jeyne’s salve, sniffing it approvingly and telling them it would help keep Jaime’s wound clean. And each of them carried sheepskins in a bedroll over their shoulders. Nan had no rope to spare them, so they had shortened their cloaks yet again and tied their bedrolls with the knotted strips

They climbed to the top of High Heart to get a lay of the land. There was an abandoned village a day’s ride to the north, but their destination was to the southwest. Acorn Hall was a long day’s ride away, according to Gendry, and they had no mounts. Jaime counted on getting an armed escort to Riverrun from Lord Smallwood. Until then, their small party was easy prey.

The grass and scrub of High Heart gradually gave way to the wood that named the lord of Acorn Hall. Large patches of snow blanketed the ground. Bare twiggy fingers stretched toward the winter sky. Here and there, huge oaks grew broad and stout amidst their taller, slimmer brothers. Empty hulls of acorns and chestnuts crunched beneath their feet. Brienne loved chestnuts, and they were rare on Tarth. She wondered why these had been left to the deer and squirrels when the riverlands would starve this winter, and if Nan had a store of the tasty fruits hidden away. Her mouth watered at the thought. Perhaps these were only the fruits of the tallest branches, she decided, hoping the rest of them had sated hungry mouths.

Gendry found a strong stick that served as a staff. While his flesh knitted itself together, his injured leg had weakened from lack of use while his good leg strengthened. He was clearly unhappy to have a weak leg. He put as much weight on it as he could, setting his jaw against painful twinges and swinging the staff so hard it flew out of his hand more than once. Gendry set the pace. Brienne and Jaime walked side by side behind him. Podrick energetically ranged around them like a squirrel, scanning the ground and the lowest branches for uneaten chestnuts. Late in the day, they came upon a flock of crows picking scraps from the carcass of a young stag. Jaime grabbed a hoof and turned it over. There was enough meat on that side’s shoulder and haunch to feed them well that night and maybe the next.

“This meat is relatively fresh,” Brienne pointed out as she skillfully cut it out of the dead animal. “Scavengers made quick work of it.”

“Including us,” agreed Jaime, bemusedly watching Podrick shoo crows away from the carcass. “There were reports of a huge pack of wolves roaming the riverlands.”

“I heard that too,” Brienne replied. Gendry studied Brienne’s movements as she dressed the meat and stored it away.

A full moon rose low and large in the sky just after sunset. They kept walking, the moonlight not much dimmer than the muted daylight that reached the cave under High Heart. Brienne found the Evenstar in the sky and said a silent prayer to the Father, asking him to watch over her father on Tarth. She thanked the gods for freedom, good weather, healing bones, the meat in their pack, and for her companions. _I should pray for Jaime_ , she thought. _Warrior, give him strength_ , she started. _Smith, grant him skill in his left arm. Father, give him wisdom. Crone, light his way. Maiden . . ._ She faltered. _Mother, . . . Give him what he needs, whatever that might be_.

Not until the hour of the badger did they stop to make camp under the branches of an ancient oak. Firewood was easy to find beneath its long limbs, and Brienne wondered if they should have refused the old woman’s hatchet. They feasted on venison and a handful of chestnuts, too tired to waste time talking or training. Soon, two dark heads and one golden one were sleeping peacefully beside the dancing campfire as Brienne peered watchfully into the dark wood.

She woke suddenly a few hours later. Jaime was sitting up and holding her hand under the sheepskins. Podrick stood watch over them, wide-eyed, the bright moon small and high above him. Wolves were howling. Another chorus joined in, and was answered from yet another direction.

“Podrick, Gendry,” Jaime said, “Take a fleece and get in the tree.” They had chosen to camp beneath the great oak for just this eventuality. Podrick scampered up.

“Keep going,” Jaime told him as Brienne braced herself against the trunk, making a ladder for Gendry and Jaime before hauling herself up after them. More wolves joined the chorus. Their song came from every direction.

“They’re not too close,” Jaime reassured the boys, “but we’ll spend the rest of the night up here. Get some sleep if you can.”

High in the tree, Podrick hugged tight a branch as big as he was. He wrapped his long belt around his skinny chest, his fleece, and the branch, tying himself snug. Gendry disappeared to the other side of the tree. Brienne handed Jaime his sheepskin, settled herself so she was unlikely to fall, and tried to sleep.

They pounded their numb limbs and climbed down at first light. Gendry hacked a forked branch into a crutch to replace his staff. Pride set aside, he used it often, hopping along on his good leg at the speed of a fast walk. Brienne began to fear his bulging thigh would burst his trouser seams. They came across three fresh deer carcasses that day, tarrying only to scavenge meat, not stopping to cook or eat. Despite their efforts, at nightfall they had not reached Acorn Hall.

“We’ll camp here,” Jaime declared when the moon was not yet over the tops of the trees.

“We’re almost there,” said Gendry, “We can sleep behind a castle wall if we keep walking.”

“We can sleep in the bellies of wolves if we keep walking.”

“Ser Jaime’s right. It’s best we camp under one of these big oaks,” Brienne said. A flock of ravens was already roosting in the branches, but she could suffer a few bird droppings.

Gendry scowled and looked in the direction of Acorn Hall. In the direction they thought Acorn Hall was, Brienne amended. Gendry’s skills as a guide had been somewhat lacking so far. _It’s unlikely we fall into another pit, at least. Isn’t it?_ All the more reason to sleep in a tree again.

This time, the wolves didn’t howl. A score of them simply materialized under the trees, eyes glowing with the light of their cook fire. Half-healed bones and muscle instantly fused and Jaime seemed to sprout a new hand, so fast did the travelers shoot up the tree ahead of the wolves’ attack. Several snatched the cooking meat, undeterred by the flames. A brief fight over the venison bought them precious time before an acrobatic wolf fairly ran up the trunk, leaping the height of a man, his jaws snapping at Jaime’s knee. Gendry pulled Jaime higher while the animal circled around to run at the tree again. When he leapt a second time, Brienne was ready with her dagger, and the wolf fell in a bloody heap, whimpering.

His pack howled in mourning. Brothers and sisters and cousins answered. The rumors were true. A river of fur flowed through the trees, silver and otherworldly in the moonlight.

“Damn the Tullys.”

Brienne looked at Jaime, speechless.

“Damn the Tullys,” he repeated. “Rivers should carry trout, not wolves.”

“Freys hold Riverrun now,” Brienne replied stupidly.

“A river of stone towers would be welcome. We’d have Gendry’s castle wall.”

_Why are we talking about this?_

“Count on Emmon Frey to fuck it up,” Jaime continued.

Below their tree, attackers snarled and leapt at them. Safely above their reach, Brienne scanned the stunning scene around her. The river rippled and shimmered. Tributaries joined it. Eddies formed and broke up where small groups of wolves ignored their quarry to play or fight amongst themselves. Two in particular cavorted like puppies. Brienne was struck by an absurd wish that the whole pack be overcome with gaiety and frolic away, harmless. Instead they formed a seething lake around the tree.

“They’ll get bored and look for easier prey,” said Jaime.

The hairs stood up on the back of Brienne’s neck. A wolf the size of a horse was wading through the lake. It stalked towards them like a queen of winter before bounding the last few strides to the tree in the blink of an eye. One huge paw was on the trunk, another on the branch beneath Gendry. The giant she-wolf was almost nose to nose with the terrified smith when Brienne leapt onto its back and plunged her dagger into its shoulder. Howling, it twisted and bucked beneath her. Fangs the size of her thumbs scraped Brienne’s bicep before she wrapped her arms around the beast’s neck and her legs around its waist, squeezing for all she was worth. The wolf shook herself, rattling Brienne’s teeth in her skull. She tucked her head against the scruff of its neck and bit down, reaching for her dagger. Wolves barked and snarled. Ravens shrieked. Jaime was calling her name. Wings beat beside her ears. Brienne wrenched the dagger free just before she was slammed hard into the oak. Her lungs emptied. Weak ribs cracked again. The dagger fell. Hands scrabbled at her clothes, her arms, grabbed her cloak. It cinched under her chin like the noose. She heard it rip, and she was on the ground. Boots hit the dirt beside her. She drew Oathkeeper. Jaime roared like a lion, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Ravens were diving and flapping at the direwolf’s shaking head. Gendry jumped down to her other side, stumbling to one knee. A wolf’s jaws closed around his arm even as Oathkeeper sliced its belly, and Gendry flung it howling into the next attacker.

Suddenly the direwolf was everywhere, barking and snapping at the other wolves, keeping them away from Brienne and her companions. A moment later, she was snarling at Brienne and Jaime across the tips of their swords, pestered by angry ravens. Another wolf took advantage of her distraction to jump Gendry. The direwolf was on him in a instant, tearing the wolf to shreds.

“Get back in the tree!” Jaime yelled.

“You first!” returned Brienne. She snatched up her shield from the foot of the tree.

“Gendry, get in the tree!”

Gendry did not need to be told twice.

“Brienne! Up!”

“You have to go first! I have two hands.” The direwolf was pacing back and forth in front of them, fur on end, snarling. It seemed to be guarding them against its will. The ravens formed an aerial barrier of angry beaks and claws. In the lull, Jaime slammed his sword in its sheath and grabbed Brienne, shoving her toward the tree.

“Climb! I’m right behind you.”

Brienne climbed, turning at the first opportunity to grab Jaime by the collar and pull him up after her. They climbed as high as they could, above where the direwolf’s head had reached. The ravens returned to their roosts, screaming at the wolves from their perches until the pack finally loped away.

They shivered in the tree for a long while before Podrick scurried down and fetched their bedrolls. Sitting astride a wide crotch behind Jaime, much like riding double on a horse, Brienne put her fleece between herself and the branch behind her. She slung her belt around the branch and tightened it under her arms. When she was done, Jaime leaned back against her, his head resting between her breasts. She let slip a small hiss.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, pulling away.

“No. . . Not much,” she replied, pulling him gingerly back into place. They tied Jaime’s belt around them both so he would not fall. Brienne recalled times they had been bound together before. Jaime had been her enemy, yet he had shielded her anyway, a thin bulwark against the rapers. Once they had been bound face to face. Shagwell had mocked them. _The lovers, he called us_. Thoughts she had stowed away spilled out of their purse and rolled round and round her head.


	19. Acorn Hall

They were exhausted and ravenous when they reached Acorn Hall. After wolfing down a late breakfast, the guests were shown to their quarters so they could bathe and rest. In her room, Brienne sat naked and sore in a tub while Lady Smallwood’s maidservants doused her with scalding hot water scented strongly of flowers. None of them could stand to look her in the face. Brienne had not been attended at the bath by servants since she left Tarth. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy it, but when she almost hit a girl who scrubbed her hurt ribs too hard, she sent them away. She was falling asleep when she heard the door open behind her. A wave of lukewarm water surged out of tub onto the floor as she stepped out and seized Oathkeeper, whirling as she drew it from its scabbard. A maidservant screamed, dropping a pile of clothes on the floor as she fled the room. The door to the neighboring chamber banged open and Jaime appeared in the hallway with his sword in hand, also naked and wet. Lady Smallwood remained frozen where she stood, just outside Brienne’s door.

Jaime darted around her into the spare room, looking around as if some evil spirit could be hiding in the hearth or hanging from one of the beams. Then he looked at Brienne. Her skin turned to goose flesh from top to toe and a fierce blush flooded down to her breasts, but she remained standing and sheathed Oathkeeper.

“It was nothing, Ser Jaime. A false alarm,” she said, looking away from him, crossing her arms and hunching her shoulders.

“Excuse me then, my lady,” he said abruptly, and left the room, greeting the staring Lady Smallwood on his way out.

Lady Smallwood recovered herself quickly and entered the room with a maidservant who closed the door and picked the clothes up off the floor. Not the one that had screamed and run away, Brienne noted, as she replaced Oathkeeper on its hook and picked up a towel. She turned her back to them and began drying herself.

“Please excuse me, Lady Brienne,” she said, “I’ll be sure to knock, next time.”

“I should have barred the door,” Brienne mumbled.

“There is no one your size here, man or woman,” Lady Smallwood said. “My goodmother’s clothes will be short on you, but I think they will fit over your hips.”

Brienne sighed but was not surprised. “I’ll wear what I have. Thank you, my lady.”

“Your things can be washed right away and dried by the ovens, Lady Brienne. They should be dry enough to wear tomorrow.”

As much as she dreaded wearing another ill-fitting dress, Brienne longed for clean dry clothes. She slipped on the linen shift and the previous Lady Smallwood’s dress. It was warm brown wool embroidered with green oak leaves and blue forget-me-nots, comfortable in the hips, tight in the shoulders, baggy in the chest, and embarrassingly short. Brienne nervously watched the servant leave with her dirty clothes while Lady Smallwood helped her dress, loosely lacing the dress over her wounded ribs and clucking over her damaged body, though she asked no questions. The bruises left by the direwolf were starting to bloom. Her splint was ragged and dirty, but still served its purpose. Brienne thought of Jeyne Heddle for the first time in many days. _I should not forget her_ , she thought guiltily.

“Our maester can make you a new splint,” Lady Smallwood said.

“Thank you,” Brienne replied. “Gendry needs his stitches out.” The ghost of High Heart had offered to do it, but after seeing her treat Jaime, Gendry had refused. Brienne did not mention Jaime’s embarrassing wound. She hoped it was still healing clean.

“I’ll tell the maester.”

The dress was laced in the front and Lady Smallwood folded the extra material into Brienne’s bosom behind the laces. Then she unrolled a sewing kit, tacked the folds together, and let out the hem, dropping it four inches and leaving it unfinished. It was still too short, but Brienne had to admit that it was better than wearing clothes caked with with dirt, sweat, blood and rust. There were also thick wool stockings, hand warmers, and a knitted shawl that could hide her small bosom. Or her ravaged face. The thanks Brienne gave Lady Smallwood were sincere.

“I sent ravens to Riverrun and Wayfarer’s Rest, Ser Jaime,” said Lord Smallwood at supper. “Lord Vance will be here tomorrow to escort you to Riverrun. There are too many dangers prowling my wood for me to spare any men, if it can be helped.”

“Have outlaws been prowling your wood, my lord? We saw only wolves.”

“There are fewer than when I was twiddling my thumbs outside Riverrun. We’ve been hunting them and the wolves almost constantly since I returned.”

“Have you any news from the capital?” Jaime asked.

“Lord Tyrell is Lord Regent now,” said Lord Smallwood. Noting Jaime’s surprise, he continued, “I know naught of how it happened. News takes a long time to fly to our small wood. Often times, it walks here.”

“It’s a long walk from Kings Landing.”

“Just so, my lord. I received the news just today, when Lord Vance replied to my raven.”

He offered no news of Cersei, and Jaime did not ask.

After supper, Brienne and Podrick took practice swords and shields from the armory and went to the godswood for his evening lesson. An hour later, Jaime appeared with a skin of wine, two goblets, and two helms. He sent Podrick to bed and eyed Brienne’s dress.

“It suits you,” he said. “The dress. Not as well as the blue one, and the oak leaves would be better in the color of your hair. But the blue and brown go well together.”

Brienne flushed. “It’s too short,” she replied.

“Easier for you to get up when I knock you on your arse.”

She snorted.

“It should have more embroidery, though. Tiny stars. A moon, here.” He put a finger on her shoulder. “Ravens, among the oak leaves.” He touched the embroidered leaves. “A tall woman in a hauberk, fighting a wounded direwolf, right in the center.”

Brienne pressed her lips together. “That direwolf. . . I don’t understand. It acted so strange. And the ravens. The ravens _fought_ for us, Jaime.”

“All the wolves acted strange. They don’t normally run in packs so big. But yes. I don’t understand it either. I wonder if the direwolf once belonged to Arya Stark.”

“Each of the Stark children had a direwolf.” Brienne chewed her lip. “What happened to Sansa’s?”

Jaime sighed. “Arya’s wolf savaged Joffrey on the way to Kings Landing.” He frowned, slipped the shield over his golden hand, fidgeted with the tourney sword. “He provoked it, I’m sure. Arya’s wolf could not be found. The girl must have hidden it or given her to someone. Sansa’s wolf was killed for Arya’s wolf’s crime.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed for a moment. She worked her jaw, then gaped at Jaime. _As you were condemned for the red wedding_ , she thought, _and Podrick and Hyle and I for the harrying of the riverlands_. “Robert. . . I thought he was a better king.” _Would Renly have done any different? Surely._

“Cersei insisted. But Robert didn’t put up a fight.” Jaime stared through her, his expression hard and dark.

He met her eyes. “Do you want to fight, my lady?” he said, tense.

“Yes.”

“No breastplate?” he asked, taking his stance, “How are your ribs?”

“I didn’t want to stain the dress. You won’t touch me anyway.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Brienne did not realize how much she had missed training with Jaime until he was sweating in front of her. When the armholes of her dress ripped open, she decided it was an improvement and tore them open even more, until her arms had full mobility. She didn’t know if she would get another chance to spar with Jaime, and decided it was worth risking Lady Smallwood’s displeasure. When they stopped to take a break, Jaime awkwardly poured wine for them, rebuffing her attempt to do it for him. He handed her a goblet. “To what shall we drink, my lady?”

Brienne stammered, unprepared for the question.

“To Sansa Stark’s health?” he suggested.

“Yes, and to King Tommen’s.”

“That’s two toasts, my lady,” Jaime observed, a smirk on his lips.

“And to Podrick,” Jaime said after Brienne had finished her second sip.

Brienne’s eyes watered as she drank to the boy’s future. _How had he become so dear to her? When had that happened?_ The wine was bitter on her tongue.

“Come now, my lady,” Jaime admonished her, “Surely your little squire deserves a whole cup.”

Brienne quaffed her goblet and picked up her sword before Jaime could refill it.

“What do you plan to do about your dark and stormy cousin?” Jaime asked the next time he filled their cups.

Brienne eyed Jaime. He had interrupted them talking in her room before supper to ask her to dress his wound. “Did you hear us talking, through the wall?”

“I heard him knock on your door. I couldn’t make out your conversation.”

“He asked me to teach him the sword, and to take him to the Vale with me.”

“And you accepted?”

“Yes.”

“Did he swear allegiance to you?”

“No.”

“He should.”

Brienne did not answer.

“Will he be your squire or your knight?”

“Will you pardon him?”

“Will Tommen pardon him, you mean.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow.

“He hasn’t been accused of anything. But when I get to Kings Landing, I can have him pardoned for banditry and treason, if you wish. If he doesn’t tell people it was Lord Beric who knighted him, he may be better off without a pardon.”

Brienne hesitated. She didn’t know if it was better for Gendry to be pardoned for being an outlaw, or to slip away without being accused, when he was clearly guilty. Either way, taking him with her was a risk. But he had proved himself. . . almost trustworthy. _He’s not a raper. I trust him that much. A little more_. It would be safer to travel with a man she could trust that much. And she felt she owed him something.

“He said the City Watch was after him, but he didn’t know why.”

“You believe him?”

“I told him the price of taking him on was honesty. He was a valuable apprentice. He caused no trouble, had committed no crime. But one day his master told him he had to join the Night’s Watch. The gold cloaks came looking for him twice on the way up the kingsroad. Gendry heard one of them say the queen wanted him. The Night’s Watchman refused to give him up.”

Jaime darkened. “Why isn’t he at the Wall, then?”

“Westermen were harrying the riverlands. A lord with a manticore on his shield attacked them near the God’s Eye and killed the recruiter. Gendry escaped with some other boys-- and with Arya Stark.”

“Arya Stark?” Jaime looked at Brienne, puzzling the pieces together. “She slipped out of Kings Landing disguised as a boy joining the Night’s Watch.”

Brienne nodded. “After they escaped the manticore lord, they were captured by Gregor Clegane. Listen: They served at Harrenhal! Gendry smithed and Arya was a cupbearer. Arya found out Bolton was going to turn Harrenhal over to Vargo Hoat, and they ran away and were taken captive by Lord Beric’s men. They must have left Harrenhal just before we arrived!”

“Good for them. Harrenhal is cursed.”

Brienne looked at Jaime, affronted.

“It is! What would you have done, Brienne? If she had served us that day, would you have known her?”

Brienne scowled at him and continued, “Arya escaped Beric’s band and was seen with Sandor Clegane. Gendry stayed with the outlaws when Lady Stark took over because she was Arya’s mother. He attached himself to Ser Brynden because he was Arya’s uncle.”

“And now he’s attached himself to you.” Jaime paused. “I hope you fare better than his previous liege lords and lady. Why didn’t he escape Beric’s band with Arya, if she means so much to him?”

 _Why was he cooperating with a murderous scheme at the Inn of the Crossroads?_ Brienne could only shrug. _Poor judgment? Lack of options?_ Her cousin’s judgment needed improvement, clearly.

“Well, It’s no wonder he hates Lannisters. Lorch and Clegane were the scum of the West. Worse than scum. And my father brought the bloody mummers over here.”

“My Uncle Kevan should be Lord Regent,” Jaime said at their next break, swirling his wine and frowning. “Mace Tyrell will muck it up.”

Brienne had nothing to say to that. She only watched Jaime drink from the goblet cradled in his hand. _He has beautiful hands_ , she thought. _Hand_ , she corrected herself. The other was exquisitely crafted, but nowise as lovely. She took a drink and inspected her own. Jaime had not talked much about his family during the long days they had been underground, except when he asked Podrick for tales of his brother and found out that someone tried to kill him on the battlefield. A Lannister knight, Brienne had guessed from his reaction to the news.

“When Cersei was imprisoned, the small council invited him to return to Kings Landing and take up the regency. I didn’t think him foolish enough to refuse it in favor of Mace Tyrell.”

“Your sister was imprisoned?”

“Ah! You have not heard! My sweet sister was accused of murder, treason, and fornication. Before I left Riverrun, I had a letter from her requesting I champion her in a trial by battle. It will be done by now. I imagine Cersei will not be welcoming me back to Kings Landing, unless death is as temporary there as it is here in the riverlands.”

“But . . . Surely there was someone else?”

“To champion Cersei? It has to be one of the kingsguard. Arys Oakheart and Balon Swann were in Dorne with Myrcella. Loras was grievously wounded in the taking of Dragonstone. Osmund Kettleblack is her primary accuser. Boros Blount is craven, though he has the benefit of having two hands. Meryn Trant will have been her champion.”

 _Dragonstone was taken?_ “Stannis. Is he dead?”

“Stannis? Stannis is at the Wall with what’s left of his army. I don’t know what he’s doing there.”

The Wall. Brienne could take Sansa to her bastard brother at the Wall and avenge Renly. Jaime was looking at her with interest. Her mind went back to their previous line of conversation. Cersei had asked Jaime to champion her. _What was she thinking? Did she think it so easy to learn to use a sword again?_

“Ser Meryn is. . . He is good enough to prevail, is he not? Against. . . most men?”

“Do you believe the gods judge a trial by battle, Brienne?”

She wanted to. She believed the Warrior gave strength to the arm of the just, and the Father and the Crone gave wisdom to judges. But strength and wisdom did not always win out.

“You thought your brother innocent when he lost his trial.”

Jaime’s jaw twitched, and he took a long drink.

“My sister is not innocent,” he said.

Brienne drank, too. “When you return to Kings Landing, will you stand trial?”

“Who will accuse me?” Jaime asked, refilling their goblets. “Not the Tyrells. The High Septon? He has rumors and Stannis’s letters. Those are not witnesses. I committed no murder for my sister, though I would have, if she had asked it of me.”

“But . . .”

“Your mouth is hanging open, my lady. Mayhap it thirsts for wine?”

“Surely someone must have noticed. . . You and Cersei. . .”

“Fucking? We’d be dead now if they had. Cersei was careful and Robert was drunk.”

“But the servants. And ladies-in-waiting. Bran Stark saw you.”

“Bran Stark is dead. We were never together for long, after she married.” He slipped his shield over his arm. “If you must poke at my wounds, Brienne, do it with a sword. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

“You’re tiring, Brienne,” said Jaime when he killed her a second time.

Brienne scowled. She had sweated out the toasts to the young people and the talk of Gendry and Arya, but the conversation about Cersei had gotten into her blood, and her limbs were slow to answer Jaime’s attacks. Angry at herself for letting the wine and jealousy get to her head, she fared even worse. She had never let such things affect her swordsmanship before.

“I am not tiring,” she replied. “I have more stamina than you, Ser Jaime.”

“Whereas I am old and spent. Let’s stop before my creaky heart gives out.” Jaime threw down his sword and grabbed the wineskin. He struggled to squeeze the near-empty skin, and Brienne took it from his grasp, wringing out the last of the wine into a goblet he held under its mouth.

“We’ll have to share, my lady,” he said. Jaime smiled as he put the goblet to his lips and tipped his head back. Brienne stared, drinking him in as he quenched his thirst. He returned her gaze as he drank and handed her the cup, eyes sparkling. Her large hands wrapped around Jaime’s graceful one when she accepted it. She took a drink. The wine was sweeter than she remembered. She held the cup stupidly and stared at Jaime. _I should . . ._ But she could only look at Jaime. He took the cup from her dumb fingers and drank it dry. Then he tipped his head again.

His smile was sweet. His lips were soft. His tongue was wet.

His hand was gentle. His arms were strong, his body warm.

Winter turned to spring.

Brienne melted.

She was just starting to get the hang of kissing Jaime when he pulled away from her. Her lips clung to him until he pressed a hand against her chest.

“Lady Brienne! M’lady! Brienne!”

 _I’ve had too much wine_.

“Cousin!” Gendry was glaring at them. “You promised me a sword lesson.”

 _When I was done with Jaime_.

“I’ll give you a lesson, ser,” Jaime declared.

The glare shifted fully to Jaime. Brienne handed Gendry her shield and tourney sword. “Go on, then,” she told Jaime. She leaned back against the tree to watch, her head fuzzy from wine and kisses.

Her muscular cousin was persistent. And strong. He knew where he wanted his blade to go, but not how to make it go there. Years of hard work gave him stamina, and he attacked Jaime again and again, wielding the sword like a hammer. Jaime’s taunts didn’t affect him as much as Brienne expected, but that might have been because he was so bad it didn’t show. Jaime danced around Gendry, saving his strength and easily avoiding his blade while barely raising his arm. Only when he started dancing closer and practicing his parries did Gendry come close to touching him. By then, Gendry’s bad leg was slowing him down. Jaime repeatedly slipped to his back side. Her cousin would be black and blue the next morning. Brienne could not help but smile. Neither man would admit to being tired. Brienne hugged her shawl close and dosed off to the music of their swords and Jaime’s voice.


	20. Acorn Hall, continued

Brienne of Tarth was a charming drunk. When Jaime walked her to her chamber, she stumbled against his shoulder, babbling nonsense. When Jaime added wood to her fire, she smiled groggily, stroking his hair and shyly slipping her fingers under his collar. When Jaime threw back her blankets and helped her into bed, she cheerfully mumbled a muddled invitation, her hands roaming his body with clumsy sweetness. He tucked her in like a child and kissed her goodnight like a woman. Then he went to his room, stroked himself off into the embers of his hearth, pulled the blankets from his mattress, and bedded down in the passage, across the threshold of Brienne’s closed door.

When a nervous young maidservant appeared early in the morning, Jaime let her in. Brienne slept soundly while the girl stoked the fire and hastily retreated. When Podrick arrived for his morning training, Brienne answered the door herself, surprisingly alert and sober, and sent him to the kitchens to fetch her clothing, hanging by the ovens. In the dim light, she looked down at Jaime on the floor and stammered out, “Good morning, Ser Jaime!”

He smiled indulgently in response, and she shut the door, embarrassed. Chuckling to himself, Jaime gathered up his bedding and returned to his room.

Brienne spent most of that day drilling Podrick and Gendry in the yard. Curious eyes, including Jaime’s, came out of the oaken keep to watch them. Brienne had changed into men’s clothes and was wearing a breastplate and helm. _In case young Renly does something stupid_ , Jaime thought. The audience was too polite to taunt Brienne, at least while Jaime was there, but he noticed them chuckling to each other while she reviewed the rudiments of handling a sword with Gendry. Jaime reconsidered. _Maybe the breastplate isn’t for Gendry_. The brawny young man stood opposite Podrick, and Brienne corrected him often: Moving his thumb or fingers where they ought to rest on the hilt. Tapping his foot with her boot until it was in its proper place. Lowering his elbow. Tilting his wrist. Gendry studiously ignored the titters, waiting until his lessons were done to cast his glare around the yard. _He glares at me more than them, ungrateful wretch_. One of them was a young knight who had been glancing at Jaime a lot that morning. _He means to ask me to spar_ , Jaime realized.

Jaime approached Brienne and Gendry. He took Gendry by the arm and said quietly, “If you and Brienne are going to travel as cousins, you should go by Gendry Storm, not Gendry Waters.”

“He speaks like someone from Kings Landings,” protested Brienne.

“You can say he spent his childhood there.” He turned to Gendry. “You can tell the truth, if you must, and say you were born in Flea Bottom. Ned Stark’s bastard was born in the south and is named Snow. But you’re much less likely to get questions about how you met and how you’re related if people assume you’re both stormlanders.”

Gendry’s scowl turned to a pained look that meant he was thinking hard, and then he nodded. Jaime left the yard.

Lord Karyl Vance arrived late in the day with forty and men-at-arms, a number of whom carried longbows.

“It’s said Lord Beric is dead, but that with his last breath he gave the kiss of life to Robb Stark. That it’s the Young Wolf reborn, half wolf and half man, who leads the outlaws now, attracting northern deserters scattered across the riverlands,” he said to them at supper.

“The dead don’t get much rest these days.”

“There is truth in the rumors, though,” said Lord Vance “No one’s sighted the lightning lord in weeks. He used to get himself killed quite regularly, so it may be he decided to stay dead this time. And there is a new leader among the outlaws, roughly Lord Robb’s age and build, who speaks like a northman and wears a helm in the shape of a wolf’s head.”

“There was a young northman among Lady Stoneheart’s men, but he seemed older than Robb Stark,” said Brienne.

“Desperation makes men blind, my lady,” replied Lord Vance.

“A dog’s head,” said Jaime. “The helm is a dog, not a wolf. That’s Sandor Clegane’s helm. No one who wore it after him has lived very long. Lets hope it serves this northman as well as the others.”

“It’s also said the Hound was killed by a woman.” Lord Vance looked at Brienne.

“He was,” said Jaime, “Not Clegane, though. It was one of Vargo Hoat’s bloody mummers who took up his helm and became the mad dog of Saltpans. I killed the next one, though Lady Brienne had a hand in that, too. Perhaps you’ll do for this one.”

“Or the two of you could join the hunt, since you’re so good at it.”

“I have duties to return to in Kings Landing, my lord.”

“I have obligations as well, my lord,” added Brienne. Jaime noticed that Lord Vance could not look at Brienne’s face and eat at the same time.

“Is there any news from the capital?” he asked.

“Lord Tyrell is the new Lord Regent. He took office just a week ago, but he was eager to announce his new position. I received an announcement by raven.”

“The new Lord Regent,” Jaime said. “Who was the old Lord Regent?”

Lord Vance’s spoon paused on the way to his mouth. He put it down and cleared his throat. “Kevan Lannister was the old Lord Regent. You’ve been gone a long time, Lord Jaime,” he said, sneaking a quick glance at Brienne. “Your uncle is dead. He and the grand maester were murdered. When he heard the news, your uncle Emmon demanded a levy of men at arms to augment the garrison at Riverrun. Half the men I brought with me today will remain there.”

Jaime’s blood ran cold.

“Emmon Frey is not my uncle, nor your lord paramount. What news of my sister?”

“I’ve heard no news of the Queen.”

Jaime looked hard at the man.

“Only rumors, Lord Jaime.”

Jaime sighed. He would not discuss rumors about Cersei at the supper table.

“There is some good news,” said Lord Vance, eager to change the subject. “The Warden of the West is wed to Lady Mariya’s youngest daughter. I heard it from Lyle Crakehall. He said Ser Daven refused to marry at the Twins, meaning to choose a girl there and wed her at Casterly Rock. But he arrived at Darry first and found a maiden Frey girl there, newly flowered. He married her before her mother’s family and sent ravens to the Twins and Riverrun. Your Aunt Genna had offered to go to the Twins and choose a bride for him, and bring her to Riverrun to be married there. It’s good she didn’t go. Ryman Frey was killed by outlaws between Riverrun and the Twins.”

Gatehouse Ami’s little sister. Jaime had barely noticed her at Darry, but Lord Walder could make no objection. All Daven had to do was marry a Frey. He would be quite the family man, Jaime thought, if he took up responsibility for his wife’s kin. Jaime couldn’t imagine him putting up with his goodsister, though.

“Is Strongboar still at Darry? What was Daven doing there?”

“Mostly. Ser Lyle’s made himself at home there. Everyone expects Gatehouse Ami to give him a bastard as a guest gift. Unless he marries her first. I crossed paths with him near Stone Hedge. He was frustrated that everyone else was fighting outlaws while he couldn’t seem to find any. I would gladly trade my luck for his. Ser Daven’s been wandering the riverlands searching for you. He tracked some outlaws onto Darry lands and deprived Ser Lyle of a fight.”

Marissa and Amerei Frey were granddaughters of Walder’s Crakehall wife. Strongboar’s child, bastard or no, could grow up as cousin and companion to Daven’s children. _Was Daven learning to play the game?_ His marriage didn’t quite right the board that Lancel had kicked over, but the Lannister-Crakehall-Darry tie could grow strong, if played well. Jaime wondered if Daven realized what he had done by marrying the only Frey girl of the right age who didn’t live at the Twins.

“Strongboar wanted the Hound for himself, Lady Brienne,” Jaime said. “He’ll be disappointed you got to him first.”

“Clegane is still out there. There will always be another Hound to replace the dead ones,” Brienne said sadly.

Jaime looked at her. Her own clothes were ragged and blood-stained, despite the washing, so she was wearing the embroidered brown dress again, a shawl pinned over it to hide her exposed shoulders. Jaime wanted very much to expose those shoulders again, and to rip the rest of the dress off her. He recalled the loving eyes that gazed at him when he kissed her goodnight, and the stoic, impassive look she wore when she was a prisoner, under constant threat of rape. _No. Brienne is not the kind of girl a man rips the clothes off, unless he’s forcing her_. He remembered how she had lost her temper when they fought in the stream, and how she had shoved him against the cave wall when he insulted Renly. _Or is she? Would that I could find out._ Jaime sighed.

“Lord Jaime?”

“Yes? . . . What?”

“Will the western forces leave the riverlands, now that you’ve been found?” asked Lady Smallwood.

“I imagine so. You have enough mouths to feed this winter without us. I’ll take my men back to Kings Landing.”

“Ser Daven’s army has been leaking deserters, my lord. It adds an outlaw for every one the Warden hangs,” said Lord Smallwood.

Jaime sighed again. “I’m sure my cousin will take them home as soon as possible.” He would order Daven to take his army home, but he would not let the Smallwoods think it was at their request.

“The Young Wolf is hanging Lannister deserters,” said Lord Vance. “They’re fools. What riverman is like to share food with a deserter?”

“Desperation makes men blind, as you said, Lord Vance. Is the Blackfish with this young northman?”

“That is uncertain. There are rumors that he is, and rumors that he died in the inferno.”

“The inferno?”

“There was an inferno in a huge cave that was being used as a hideout. Ser Marbrand’s men sorted though the dead looking for you. Burned bodies are hard to identify.”

So Addam had tracked them to the cavern.

Brienne was still wearing the dress when Jaime found her in the godswood waiting for him. When he poured the wine, she covered her goblet with pale fingers.

“No wine for me, Ser Jaime,” she said, blushing.

Jaime paused. He put the stopper in the wineskin. “Do you regret anything? Do you remember everything?” he asked her.

Mute, she flushed hotter and bit her lip.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You kissed me goodnight.”

Jaime smiled. _You invited me into your bed_. He did not shame her by reminding her of that. Instead, he kissed her. Her hands fluttered about his body like shy birds. Brienne clearly didn’t know what she was doing. But she did it so . . . tenderly. So innocently. So passionately. When they stopped to catch their breaths, Jaime brushed his lips against her skin and nuzzled her neck.

“Jaime, . . . we should be practicing.”

“We are. I need more practice.” He kissed her again.

They practiced with mouths and with swords until it was too dark to see. Lacking water, Brienne had a few sips of wine, but she walked to her chamber on her own power. Jaime kissed her goodnight in the passage and listened for the sound of her barring her door before he went to sleep in his own bed.


	21. Departure from Acorn Hall

Brienne woke early and alert, buzzing with energy. She was excited from the previous night, excited to be on a horse again soon, nervous to be traveling with strangers, and dreading her inevitable parting with Jaime. She put her boots on, still floating from his attentions. It would be a few days ride to Riverrun. She had that long, at least. This morning, she did not want to break her fast with a table full of Lord Vance’s men. Perhaps she could sneak something out of the kitchens and find a quiet place on the ramparts to eat and watch the castle come to life. Or she could eat in her room, with the warm hearth and Jaime just across the wall.

The kitchens were already bustling and bright. Servants were pulling bread out of the ovens and setting out butter and cheese. Chestnuts were roasting over an open fire. Brienne could not resist. She stood next to the fire watching the delicious fruits, willing one to burst open in front of her.

“They won’t be done for a little while. I’ll make sure you get some at breakfast.” Lady Smallwood was standing next to her.

“Oh. . . I . . .” Brienne hesitated.

“I promise you will get some, Lady Brienne,” said Lady Smallwood, laughing. “Else you might draw your fearsome blade on my servants again in your hunger.”

“I wouldn’t. Thank you. Chestnuts are rare on Tarth,” Brienne said. She glanced around the kitchens, lingering despite herself. When she turned back to the chestnuts-- _They don’t take that long to roast, do they?_ \-- the older woman was studying her, and Brienne left.

She was shocked when the lady appeared at her door a few minutes later with a cloth of bread and cheese, another full of chestnuts, and a flask of ale.

“My lady! I did not mean to put you out, my lady. I can come down to breakfast. You could have sent someone with the nuts. Are all your maidservants so afraid of me?”

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror this morning, Lady Brienne?”

Brienne touched her cheek and dropped her hand. “I . . . ”

“Forgive me, my lady. You are not in the habit of looking in the glass, perhaps?”

“Not lately,” she mumbled, shaking her head and drooping.

“There’s a love bite on your neck.”

It took a moment for Brienne to comprehend what Lady Smallwood said. Even Jaime could not make her flush redder that she did then.

“You’re younger than you look, aren’t you?”

“I-I am nearly twenty.”

“I was a mother of two when I was twenty.”

Brienne looked away from the mother, working her jaw. “Have you anything else to say to me, my lady?” asked the maid.

Lady Smallwood sighed. “Only that you should cover your neck. Unless you blush all the way to Riverrun. The redness disguises the mark quite well. Here.” She took the shawl and wrapped it around Brienne so that it climbed up her neck and covered her ears, and pinned it in place with a simple oak brooch. “There. It’s a cold ride to Riverrun. You’ll want to keep your neck warm under your traveling cloak. The love bite will fade by the time you arrive. . . Unless you add new ones.”

“Thank you. For the shawl. And the chestnuts. And everything else. I’m sorry I tore the dress with the oak leaves. It was a nice dress, and warm.”

“Yes. Go with the gods, Lady Brienne.”

Jaime darkened her open door shortly after Lady Smallwood left. Brienne was staring into the hearth, watching a chestnut husk catch fire. She peeled one and offered it to Jaime. He sauntered in and took it, paying her with a long kiss.

“What’s wrong?”

“You left a mark on my neck. Lady Smallwood noticed.”

“I did? Where?” Jaime explored her neck with his fingers, pushing the shawl aside with his hand.

“I don’t know.”

“Here it is.” He rubbed the mark with his knuckles and smiled wantonly at her. Brienne tried to scowl at him, but produced a worried look instead. Jaime sighed, a mixture of emotions crossing his face.

“Forgive me, Brienne. It won’t happen again. . . Not where others can see.” He fingered her shoulder where it had been exposed in the torn dress. _Did he leave a mark there, too?_

“If you blush like that all the way to Riverrun, you won’t need that shawl. Not to hide the mark, anyway. It blends right in.”

Irritated, Brienne pulled it closer around her neck. “Lady Smallwood and her maidservants saw me naked.”

Jaime smiled ruefully. “I won’t leave any more marks, Brienne. I’m sorry. Truly.” He brushed his lips chastely against her cheek. “I’ll see you in the yard.”

When they left Acorn Hall, Brienne had two wooden swords inside her bedroll, from the master at arms. Gendry had one strapped defiantly across his back, a gift from some of the men, along with a split lip.


	22. The Road to Riverrun

“ . . . the kingslayer’s whore . . .”

Jaime overheard the words as he entered Lord Smallwood’s hall, and his feet came down to earth. Talk died as he joined the table. Men were leaving and others replacing them on the benches. Jaime could not tell who voiced the slur. An outlaw had called Brienne that, Jaime remembered. Where had Vance’s men heard it? Had someone seen them in the godswood? Had Young Renly told on his cousin? Who else had noticed Brienne’s love bite? Anger and guilt filled Jaime’s belly. He left, his food half-eaten.

In the yard, Gendry had his old scowl on his face, but the split lip and the bruise on his cheek were new, and he had exchanged his crutch for a wooden sword. His leg had much improved, but just then he was having difficulty mounting his horse. Someone might have hit him in the thigh during the fight, Jaime thought. _He looks the way I feel_.

They stopped for the night at a lonely hearth and chimney, all that remained of a once prosperous farmhouse. Soon a fire was burning in it and tents staked around it. Brienne was quartered by herself in a small goat shed on the other side of a frozen garden, which had somehow escaped the Mountain’s torch. A few men made japes about Podrick’s need to be with his mother when he took his bedroll and joined her, but if the boy had not gone of his own accord, Jaime would have sent the him to keep her company. He claimed to be thirteen, but seemed much younger. Podrick’s shy earnestness, in contrast to Gendry’s ill temper and Brienne’s oddity, endeared him to some of the men. When Podrick warmed himself by the fire, watching Brienne work Gendry at his swordsmanship, they gave him friendly and teasing advice, encouraging him to use it against the older boy, and to defend his large lady.

Jaime lay in a tent next to five other men, missing Brienne while snow swirled outside the thin walls. Wolves howled in the distance. There would be no practice for him on the road. Lord Vance was too responsible to let Jaime out of his sight. _And when we get to Riverrun?_ he wondered, _what then?_ Had Lew Piper realized by now that Jaime got his love bites fighting Ilyn Payne? Jaime had no doubt a number of his men only pretended not to know. Would they think he was fighting Brienne, or fucking her? He huffed, clenching his fists-- the phantom and the real-- and his arse. There was a certain sharp sweetness amidst the pain. When he relaxed, he imagined Brienne’s gentle fingers placing salve on his tender skin, sparks flying between them. A gust of wind set the tents shuddering violently. A rope got loose and slapped furiously against the canvas until one of the sentries caught it and tied it down.

Ser Addam Marbrand and several dozen of his riders met them a few hours from Riverrun. Jaime was surprisingly pleased to see his surfeit of squires again. Lew Piper smiled at him, and Peck seemed more a man. They cast curious glances at his new companions, but kept their thoughts to themselves. Brienne would need new clothes, Jaime noted. There had to be some things that fit her at Riverrun. Lord Vance took his leave, taking all his men. Jaime had explained to him that Lord Baelish of Harrenhal was lord paramount of the riverlands, and Lord Emmon had overstepped his authority. Vance was pleased to keep his men, and Jaime was glad they could not spread rumors about Brienne around Riverrun. But if Littlefinger was going to stay in the Vale, he would have to appoint someone to act as lord paramount until he returned. The riverlands could not be left to the likes of Walder and Emmon Frey whilst their absent lord enjoyed the fruits of Lysa’s neutrality. Tywin’s deals with the Stranger seemed less and less clever as time went by. Surely Robb Stark could have been defeated without the Red Wedding, Jaime thought to himself, not for the first time.

Jaime and his friend rode a little ahead so Addam could catch him up on events that had passed since they parted. The outlaws who shadowed Brienne to Pennytree were dead: one died fighting, the other hanged. Addam had lost Jaime’s track in the new snow before reaching the outlaw’s lair, and the captured outlaw claimed not to be able to find his way in the snow, either. Tracks left by those who crept back to the hollow hill after fleeing the brawl led Addam’s men to the cave and to the place where the outlaw’s horses were kept. Clearing the labyrinthine caves and identifying the dead had been another challenge. A blackened brooch in the shape of a fish might have belonged to the Blackfish, but his face was not among the dead. Most of the dead were faceless, but only one was headless, a woman. Several prisoners confirmed Gendry’s story that Lady Stoneheart was killed by one of her own men.

There was other news as well. Jaime had much to think on as Riverrun grew larger on the horizon.

“Jaime,” boomed Genna Lannister, huffing with effort as she waddled across the yard, the weedy Lord of Riverrun fluttering in her wake. “Back from the dead!”

“A common occurrence in these parts, aunt,” Jaime replied, kissing her cheeks. “You didn’t lose hope, did you?”

“I didn’t know what to think. Rebels would have shown off your head somewhere, if they killed you. But you were gone so long, and there was no ransom demand. It’s not like you to get into trouble chasing women.”

 _Women, no. A woman, . . . when have I not?_ “The Lady Stoneheart led many a man on a merry chase. Why should I be any different?”

Genna snorted. “Did you catch her?”

“Alas! She gave her heart to another! And her head. One of her own men.”

A commotion around Brienne caught Jaime’s attention.

“You’re under arrest, boy!” A knight in a plain tunic seized Gendry. The smith had the sense not to draw his sword, but Brienne grabbed the knight by the arm hard enough that he dropped his hold on the boy.

“He’s the crown’s prisoner,” declared Jaime, before Brienne could do anything stupid. “Ser Addam, take him to the dungeon and hold him there under guard.”

“That’s a waste of a good cell,” said the knight. “Outlaws hang.”

“You can occupy it instead, if it distresses you so.”

Brienne said nothing as Gendry was disarmed and led away, but looked at Jaime with wary and worried eyes. The knight at her elbow looked familiar, but Jaime couldn’t place him. “And who are you?” he asked.

“Ser Hyle Hunt.”

“What brings you to Riverrun, Ser Hyle?” He had not been at Riverrun when Jaime left it.

“I ride with Ser Addam.”

“You ride for Ser Addam, you mean. Since when? Where are you from?”

“Since Ser Addam raided the hollow hill. What was left of it, anyway. His riders freed me, and I joined them. I’m from the Reach.”

 _Him_ , Jaime remembered, finally. _Brienne’s suitor_. His face was easy to forget. The rest of him didn’t look like much, either, Jaime decided.

“He’s a good tracker,” Addam said to Jaime, “A very good tracker.”

“You serve Casterly Rock now, Ser Hyle. If my prisoner suffers a premature death, you’ll swing alongside his killer.”

Emmon Frey was hovering nearby. “Lord Emmon, I must speak with you,” Jaime said, leading the way to Emmon’s solar. Genna entered the room along with her husband.

“You called banners. Banners that are not yours to call,” Jaime said to Emmon.

“I only asked the river lords to help protect Riverrun and root out traitors,” Emmon whined, shrinking from Jaime. “Baelish is in the Vale. Someone must act in his place. The riverlands need a strong hand. Someone here, to guide them in these trying times. Euron Crow’s Eye is raiding up the Mander, Lord Jaime!”

Jaime could not find it in himself to credit the the man for being so craven that he grew a tiny spine. “Euron Greyjoy is not Black Harren. Someone will act for Lord Baelish, but not you,” he said. “Who sent you men?”

“Bracken, Blackwood, Piper, Goodbrook.” The names fell grudgingly from Emmon’s lips. “Vance said he was sending some with you.”

“I sent them home. You will send the rest home immediately, and any more that answer your call, or I will. If you are so craven you quake in your boots every time a fish splashes outside your walls, you can run back to Casterly Rock. King Tommen can find someone else to rule Riverrun.”

Emmon was a wizened caricature of a spoiled boy caught stealing pies. “I’ll send them home, my lord,” he said to Jaime, and left. Lady Genna remained.

“Or Lord Regent Tyrell can find someone to rule Riverrun. You heard of Kevan’s death?” she asked.

“I heard he and Pycelle were murdered. I’m sorry for your loss,” Jaime added awkwardly. Were his aunt’s eyes shiny? In the past months she had lost her last two brothers and two of the nephews she helped raise had disappeared. He was about to ask for news when she offered some.

“I saw him just after you left. He passed through Riverrun in a hurry on his way to Kings Landing to take up the Regency. Cersei was arrested. You know that, don’t you? Kevan just missed you, and worse, he missed Daven and his army. Which was scattered across the riverlands looking for you.” She looked at him accusingly.

“What was your fool sister thinking? Randall Tarly and Mace Tyrell camped their armies outside Kings Landing when Margaery was arrested. So many men accused her and her cousins of fornication that the saintly High Septon must have wondered at the sheer logistics of committing so much sin. When put to the question, all the accusers recanted except a singer who was obviously out of his wits, and one of your kingsguard brothers admitted to sleeping with Cersei, not Margaery. And to killing the old High Septon at her command!” By the time his aunt finished telling this news, any unshed tears she might have had were gone.

“Cersei doesn’t think.”

“And you? What were you thinking when you left your men and rushed into the wilderness with the Maid of Tarth? That’s not what the salt are calling her, by the way.”

“We were hunting outlaws. And we got them.”

“And lost you.”

“And now I am found, safe and sound, Aunt Genna, only thinner and shaggier.”

“Speaking of shaggy young fools, Daven married Gatehouse Ami’s little sister. Last I heard, he was somewhere around Stoney Sept, rooting out outlaws and broken men. Addam sent a raven there when we had news of you at Acorn Hall. He’s on his way here.”

“Yes, Addam told me. Is there news of Cersei’s trial?”

Genna sighed. “She had to make a walk of _atonement_ to be released from Baelor’s Sept. Why Kevan agreed to that, I can’t say. Did he forget how it went for Father’s mistress? Something’s gone deeply awry, Jaime. The Swords and Stars must be powerful, already. Her trial should be over by now, but the queen doesn’t feel the need to inform her old aunt of such matters of life and death. Neither did Kevan, for that matter. If he didn’t want me to take Cersei to Casterly Rock after the trial and _keep her in hand_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I’d be in the dark. We got some news when messages came here for Addam or Daven, but nothing since Kevan and Pycelle died and Lord Regent Mace Tyrell took office. No rumors, either, not concerning the outcome of her trial. Though it’s said that Gregor Clegane is on the kingsguard now.”

“That can’t be true.” _Can it?_ “The man was dying.” _Who else died? Loras?_ “It would spark a war with Dorne.”

“Cersei would never be so foolish as to spark a war with Dorne.”

“Not with Myrcella there. Uncle Kevan and Mace Tryell would not. Not like that.”

Her chair groaned as Genna stood. “What are you going to do about Kevan’s murder, nephew?”

“Go back to Kings Landing and sort things out.”

“That’s a start. But who is going to be the head of House Lannister?”

Jaime had no answer for her.

Talk at dinner steered clear of Lannister family troubles. There were plenty of others to talk about: Ironmen in the Reach. Sellswords in the stormlands. Fighting in the north. Rumors of sorcery at the wall, and famine beyond it. Dragons in the east. Illness in Oldtown. And Targaryens. As if Jaime’s life hadn’t already been invaded by enough Targaryens, a boy claiming to be Aegon, the son of Rhaegar, was leading the invasion of the stormlands, accompanied by Rhaegar’s friend Jon Connington, the legendary Golden Company, and elephants. Dornishmen were said to be massing in their mountain passes. Whether to defend their home from the invader or join him was an open question. The dragons, at least, were said to be still in Essos with the girl Daenerys.

Brienne was glum that night in the godswood. The islands of Tarth and Estermont had been the first to fall to the Golden Company. Snow covered the ground and fell around them. Jaime had not touched her since he left her room in Acorn Hall, and he’d had Maester Vyman inspect his healing arse instead of going to her. Her eyes hungered for him, and his skin prickled with desire, but Jaime kept his hands and his lips to himself. Absent his advances, Brienne was too much a lady, or still too shy a maiden, to do more than stare into his soul. Jaime offered her wine. She refused.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m wondering about my father, and Evenfall.” There had been no news of the Evenstar’s fate.

“Will you go home?”

“And do what? Join this Aegon’s army? No. I will seek Sansa in the Vale.”

“I’ll send an escort with you to Maidenpool.”

A little later, Brienne confronted Jaime about Gendry.

“He is safer in the dungeon than out of it, Brienne! A little more darkness and shit won’t hurt him. Your suitor almost stabbed him in the yard. Ah, I see. You want Gendry free to be stabbed to death in his sleep so I can rid you of Ser Hyle. It would be better for you not to travel with a known outlaw, come to think of it. Do you still want me to release him?”

Brienne scowled and flushed a blotchy red.

“I talked to Ser Addam about him.”

Brienne kept scowling.

“Addam commanded the gold cloaks after the Battle of the Blackwater, until we left to settle Riverrun. There’s an outstanding warrant for Gendry, for treason. I’ll have Tommen pardon him when I get back to Kings Landing.”

“What treason?”

“For being Robert’s bastard.”

“That’s not treason.”

“I know that, wench!” snarled Jaime. “Addam questioned Tobho Mott, and others, to root out treason, but he found only dead children. There were nine warrants. Nine of Robert’s bastards, known to live in Kings Landing. Gendry was the oldest. The others were all executed.” _Not executed. Murdered_.

Brienne gaped in shock. “But . . ?”

“It was Cersei. She signed the warrants.”

She stared at him. He knew what she was thinking: _How could you have loved a woman like that?_ A sneer twisted Jaime’s handsome features. He downed his cup of wine and faced Brienne, sword in hand. _Do you still long for Cersei’s leavings now, my lady?_

He felt better after Brienne had killed him a few times. Three deaths. Six to go, and then three more for Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon, or whoever poor babe the Mountain had smashed into Maegor’s Holdfast. Two more, for his lord father and the whore Tyrion strangled in the Tower of the Hand. Another, for the butcher boy Sandor killed for Joffrey. A thousand, at least, for Clegane and Lorch and Hoat’s bloody harvest. He ought to be raped a few hundred times, too, he did not doubt, and the crimes of his kin would still not be paid.

“Brienne, what did Ser Hyle do to you?” Jaime asked.

The lady was silent. She ran her tourney sword between her fingers and worked her jaw.

“Brienne?”

“He offered to kill you. When Stoneheart’s men were hanging us, he offered to kill you to save himself.”

“But what did he do to you? You said you’d never forget him.”

Brienne did not answer.

“Brienne,” Jaime said softly, “Should I tell Ser Ilyn to take off his head?”

“He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 _Thank the gods_.


	23. Riverrun

A raven flew into the rookery while Podrick Payne and Lew Piper sparred in the yard, crusted snow turning to mud under their feet. Jaime and Josmyn Peckledon shouted tips and encouragement to little Lew, while Brienne stayed mostly silent, observing the boys closely. Lew bested Podrick, four out of five, but their battles were hard fought. Peck was offering advice to Pod when Ser Dermot of the Rainwood came up to Jaime.

“Did you win the bet?” he asked.

“What bet?”

“You don’t know about the bet? There was a bet on Brienne’s maidenhood in Renly’s camp. The pot was nothing to sneer at by the time Lord Tarly broke it up.

Jaime looked around for Brienne. She was on the opposite side of the yard, keeping an eye on Podrick, now getting soundly beaten by Garrett Paege. “Did you put your coin in the pot, ser?”

“I couldn’t compete with those charmers from the Reach. If I wanted her, I could have asked for her hand years ago, and won Tarth instead of fifty gold dragons.”

“You seem confident of your suit.”

“The Evenstar was scraping the bottom of the barrel. His goodson would be the laughingstock of Westeros.”

“Was Hyle Hunt in on this bet?”

“He’s one of them that started it.”

“I don’t lack for gold or sapphires, Ser Dermot,” Jaime said, turning away from the man’s odious face. He decided to send Addam and his outriders to Maidenpool instead of Ser Dermot. _Hunt rides for Addam_. On second thought, he would send Addam to Maidenpool with just fifty men. The sooner Brienne and Gendry were in the Vale, the better. A smaller party would make good time, and was enough protection for that road. _For the time being, at least_.

Jaime almost walked into the elderly Maester Vyman. “These just arrived, my lord,” he said, startled, thrusting the messages in front of him like a shield.

The first was a suppression of the Faith Militant, posting a bounty for any Warrior’s Son or Poor Fellow who did not renounce his service. The second instructed the Warden of the West to bring his army to Kings Landing to help restore order. The third ordered the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to return forthwith. All were signed by Cersei Baratheon, Queen Regent.

Jaime went to find Addam and his other commanders.

Lord Emmon’s gaoler was the same man Brienne had overpowered the night she spirited Jaime out of Riverrun. The wretch had brought him vile food and taunted him with viler lies, claiming the Boltons had taken Kings Landing and flayed Cersei alive. When he opened Gendry’s cell, Jaime sent Addam’s man back with him so he could speak to the outlaw in private. He took an oil lamp from the passageway and hung it inside the door, illuminating the cell. The bastard sat in a corner, chained to the wall. He blinked against the light.

“Why do you want to go to the Vale?” Jaime asked him.

“It’s as good a place to go as any other.”

_Better_. Dorne and the Vale were the only places untouched by the war, and Dorne was like to be swept into the new one. “Why do you want to go with Lady Brienne?”

“Worried about her virtue, Kingslayer?”

“Of course I am. Are you?”

“I’m a bastard. Why should I care?”

“Are you a knight? Sworn to defend the weak and innocent?”

Gendry huffed. “Is that what she is?”

“She was when you took her prisoner.”

Gendry’s chains clinked as he squirmed sullenly.

“You’re guilty of treason, banditry, kidnapping, and murder.”

“We swore oaths. Not to harm each other.”

“While we were traveling companions, which we are not anymore.” Jaime paused. “Lady Brienne wants you to accompany her to the Vale, however, and I will hold you to your oath.”

Relief washed over Gendry. _Oh, look. His face can do something besides scowl_.

“You owe me a debt, Gendry. I’ve come to collect.”

Chains clinked again. When Gendry had agreed to be Brienne’s sworn sword and act as her squire, Jaime had him released from the dungeon, saying, “If she dies whilst you serve her, you had better make for the Night’s Watch, or an outlaw’s noose will be a woman’s kiss compared to what I’ll do to you.”

Jaime ran into his aunt after supper. The castle was filled with activity. Hundreds of men were preparing to leave on the morrow. Daven and his forces would join Jaime on the road or at Harrenhal. Addam would rejoin them after putting Brienne safely on a ship in Maidenpool.

“Blue is not your color, Jaime,” said Lady Genna.

“It’s not for me.”

“Is it for Lady Brienne?”

Jaime did not answer.

“Have you heard what people call her? I won’t repeat it. Our singer made a bawdy song about the two of you and seduced one of the kitchen maids with it. I heard the silly girl was beside herself when she saw the lady in the flesh.”

“What singer? Tom of Sevenstreams?” Jaime had not seen the singer since his return to Riverrun.

“Yes. I had to send him back to his streams for that.” She looked at Jaime as if it were his fault. “If you meet a singer on your way to Kings Landing, send him here. It will be a long winter without one.”

_And a long winter with one_. “I will.” _Podrick is going to the Vale, though_. Jaime moved to go.

Genna stopped him. “You do her no favors by giving her gifts, Jaime. What is that sword she carries? They say it’s Valyrian steel.”

“Oathkeeper, yes.”

“It could be Brightroar.”

“It isn’t.”

“You’re so sure. Do you know what Brightroar looks like?”

“I’m sure. Anyway, Brightroar’s been lost so long we can’t claim it for House Lannister if the new owner won’t part with it.”

“She isn’t a Lannister? She’s only missing the gold and garnet cloak pin. I can find one for her.”

“She’s the Maid of Tarth.”

“I’m sure her father will be glad to know she’s still a maid.

“I’m sure he will. Excuse me, Aunt Genna.”

Jaime did not find Brienne in the snowy godswood. He left his wineskin and goblet on a bench and went to her chamber. Hearing Gendry’s voice behind the door, he pushed it open without knocking.

“Have you sworn your sword to your lady yet?” Jaime asked.

“Yes.”

_Yes, ser, you barbarian_.

“Yes, Ser Jaime,” Brienne corrected, scowling at Gendry.

“Yes, milord,” Gendry said, scowling at Jaime.

_The scowling cousins. As sunny as Shipbreaker Bay_. “Am I interrupting?” asked Jaime.

“No,” replied Brienne. “One tent,” she said to the boys, “Not too big; it will be easier to warm. Best we travel light.”

Gendry and Podrick left. Jaime closed the door behind them.

“Are you happy with your new squire?”

“He’s not a squire.”

“I’ve never heard you call him Ser Gendry.”

Brienne shot him a contrary look, but didn’t argue. _She ought to be the knight, not her scruffy bastard cousin_ , Jaime thought. “I brought you something,” he said.

Jaime unfurled the thing in his hands. It was a thick wool cloak, once Tully blue, now faded to a shade close to the azure of Tarth. Fur of gray wolves covered the shoulders and lined the hood. “The pelts are new,” he said to Brienne. “Guest gifts from Lord Smallwood.” He smirked. “Not a direwolf, despite your wonderful effort . . . They’re not quite all sewn together, but I wanted to give it to you tonight. Needle and thread are in the pocket. I can take it back to Pia to work on a bit more. Or I could do it,” he japed, “but I’d much rather dance with you.”

“Thank you Jaime. It’s beautiful. And warm.” Brienne stood there, feeling the cloak with her fingers. Jaime took it out of her hands and put it on her shoulders, using his golden hand to help pin it in place. He was not so awkward with it as he was a few weeks before, but still, Brienne stood before him patiently while he painstakingly fastened the cloak with a simple clasp fashioned of a plain golden ring and pin. “I thought to have a Karstark sunburst made into a Tarth moon and sun,” he said, “but it was a poor substitute, and the Karstarks tried very hard to kill me. Unless you want my lion?”

“This will serve. Thank you, Jaime,” she said again. The space between them became thick and pregnant. Brienne kissed him on the cheek, hesitated, then kissed him on his other cheek. There, she lingered. Jaime gently gathered her into an embrace and held her close, brushing his lips against her jaw. Brienne sighed and leaned into him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lowered her mouth to his.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, some time later, “if you keep kissing me like that, you won’t be the Maid of Tarth much longer.”

She kept kissing him like that. “I missed you,” said Brienne when they came up for air, “So much. It’s been so _long_ \--” She bit her lip and hid her face behind his ear, embarrassed at her admission.

_Four days_. It had been four days since they touched. _An eternity_. He cupped her cheek with his hand. She kissed the heel of it, her beautiful eyes full of love. Jaime sighed heavily. “Brienne. Nothing would make me happier than to kiss you at every opportunity, make love to you every night, wake beside you every morning, . . train with you every day. But I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Do you want me to repeat my past mistakes?”

Brienne tore herself out of Jaime’s arms and stepped away, turning her back to him and hunching her shoulders. When Jaime approached her, she turned from him again, her head hung in silent shame. Jaime followed her around, gently enfolding her back into his arms. Brienne refused to look at him or return his embrace. Her body was tense, her feet light. She stood like a wounded animal in his arms, primed to run or to fight. Tears streamed down her flaming cheeks. Jaime raised his hand to cup her cheek, but she would not let him turn her face to his.

“Brienne. My love. We part tomorrow. One night. Is that what you want from me? One night, and a ruined reputation? Or one hour? You deserve more than that. It will not go unnoticed if I spend the night in your room.”

Brienne gripped his belt, clenching and twisting it, pulling him closer to her.

“My reputation is already ruined. And you’ve spent the night in a room with me before,” she pointed out, still not looking at him.

“Riverrun is not a hidden cave, Brienne, . . . Ah. Pennytree.” It had been so good to see her again. He had wanted to keep an eye on her, wounded and unhappy as she was. Why hadn’t he thought about how it would look? Maybe he hadn’t cared. That night, Brienne thought she was heading for a rendezvous with death and so did he. He cared now.

“Few people know that. If word spreads, it’s easy to dismiss as just another rumor.”

“Jaime. . . Do you lie so easily?

“When I have to. Do you want to spend your life sneaking into each other's beds? I assure you, Brienne, sweet as those moments are, that is no way to live! Can you deny the accusations, if they are true? If we were lovers? To save yourself? Or Podrick? To fulfill your quest? Can you lie like a Lannister?” Finally, she let him turn her face to his and look into her eyes full of hurt and shame. “Or do you want me to acknowledge you as my paramour, Brienne, to the scorn of all but the Dornish?”

Jaime’s heart lurched into his throat.

“Brienne, you deserve a husband.”

Brienne’s mulishness was determinedly trying to kick the shame out of her expression. “I will never marry,” she said. “I swore the kingsguard oath once, too, Jaime. I knew what I was giving up.”

“You did? I thought you were the Maid of Tarth?”

“You know what I mean. Didn’t you? Know what you were giving up?”

“How could I? I hadn’t met you.”

Brienne’s stubborn eyes swam. Jaime struggled not to drown.

“Brienne. You cannot be my paramour. Cersei would kill you.” Blue eyes widened. “I cannot protect both you and Tommen. Cersei is again the Queen Regent, with the power of the throne. She doesn’t want me anymore, but she would still kill you. She would kill you for less. The moment Robert was dead, she had his bastards killed, even a babe at the breast,” Jaime reminded her. “And Tyrion--”

_Tyrion. Gods be good._ How could he have forgotten about Tyrion?

“Brienne.” He kissed her. Softly at first, before he gave in to his desire and his fear, savoring her like a last meal. Her strong arms wrapped around his head, walling him off, sheltering him from everything that was not Brienne. They were as they had been moments before, before he said things responsible and insulting. With his golden hand, he held her hard against him. She hissed from the pressure on her ribs, but when he released her she held on to him just as tightly, gritting her teeth. He clutched her tunic instead, ripping it, and slipped his hand through the rent to touch skin. He felt Brienne’s shock. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. But his hand betrayed the lie, greedily fondling her. Soothing fingers caressed Jaime’s cheek and cupped the back of his head. They tangled in his hair and tenderly gripped his jaw. With gentle firmness, they pulled him reluctantly away from his lady’s mouth. Arousal and concern warred in Brienne’s eyes when she looked into his.

“Jaime. What’s wrong? What about Tyrion?”

_Her eyes are so beautiful. Why would Brienne want to give love to such as me?_

“Jaime.”

Jaime’s jaw worked, but no words came out. “Brienne,” he said finally.

She ran her fingers through his hair.

“My brother owes me a debt, Brienne. A grievous debt.” He told her what he had done to his little brother, who had loved him. He told her what happened to his innocent young wife. “Tysha. Her name was Tysha. I didn’t know Father would do that to her. I would not have . . . I didn’t want . . . I couldn’t . . . It was too late.” He told her what Tyrion had said to him outside his black cell before murdering their father.

They said nothing, breathing against one another while Brienne stroked his hair.

“I don’t want the first time to be rape,” she said quietly.

_Nor any other_ , thought Jaime in anguish, squeezing her again. She hissed. _Her ribs. Gods help me! I cannot love this woman without hurting her!_ He relaxed his embrace, running his hand up and down her muscular back. _I cannot protect her from everything. Not even from myself._ He let go of Brienne and barred the door.


	24. Departure from Riverrun

An easy hand held her trembling hip, his fingers steady and firm. She could feel her cunt pulse, and hear the blood rushing past her ears. Love was so sweet, and Brienne of Tarth felt dizzy. _I am alive, and drunk on Jaime_. A laugh burst from her lover’s lips, and he kissed her mouth.

“What did you _do_ to me?” she mumbled, breathless.

He laughed again, tangling his fingers in the hair between her thighs. “I kissed you,” he said, “That’s all.” His smile was as warm as sunlight. “You’re still the Maid of Tarth.”

“You . . .” Brienne’s words disintegrated into senseless babble.

Jaime laughed again. She never noticed before just how good it sounded. He was tracing his hand across her naked body, smiling and making her shiver. Tentatively, she touched his belly, then his cock, and it was his turn to shiver. Jaime took her hand and stood, pulling her off the bed. Light-headed and boneless, she followed his lead, falling up into his arms. He backed her to the hearth and pressed her against the warm stone, curling her fingers around his stiff cock. Brienne stroked it gently with her thumb. Blue eyes met green.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Jaime’s hand wrapped around hers. His stump rubbed against her waist, as if his missing hand wanted to touch her there. He kissed her shoulder, her jaw, her lips. Nose to neck, thigh to thigh, hand in hand, Brienne felt Jaime’s pleasure. His seed spilled into the flames.

They shifted so their bodies aligned. They stood there a long time, warmed by each other and the fire, holding and kissing and caressing each other.

“I should go,” said Jaime, staying where he was.

Brienne sucked in a breath. _I don’t want you to go._ She pulled him closer, swallowing the pain of a complaining rib. Of course loving Jaime hurt, even now. Especially now. _Closer than skin. I want you closer than skin_. She grasped his hip with an enormous hand, ran a finger along his cock. Jaime’s laugh caressed her neck.

“Are you not satisfied, my lady?” he teased.

“No.”

Brienne felt Jaime’s smile before his kiss. He pressed his stump against her cunt and she lost herself again.

When she became capable of coherent thought, he was looking in her eyes. _He is so sweet. Too sweet. I am . . . I am . ._.

“I am yours, Brienne,” he said.

. . . _his_.

“You are mine, Jaime,” she whispered, “and I am yours.” The back of her mind heard those words escape her, and was afraid. But her body was brave and her heart was full. Jaime kissed her, and the wisp of fear withered, stillborn.

They held each other.

“Spar with me, Brienne,” said Jaime.

They helped each other dress. Jaime gathered up their gear, looped together with rope, from the corner of the room. Brienne stepped into the corridor and checked for curious eyes before beckoning to Jaime. He stepped out, carrying the tourney swords and helms conspicuously over his shoulder. Brienne closed the door and strode past him, raising her hood to shadow her flushed face as she briskly navigated the busy castle.

The godswood glittered, the sounds of the surrounding castle muffled by the snow and trees. It held a familiar sight, now: Jaime smiling at her in moonlight and snow.

“How are you?” he asked her.

“I feel drunk.”

He laughed and gave her a kiss, lingering over her neck. “Don’t worry,” he told her, “I won’t leave any marks.”

“Are you all right?” he asked when Brienne removed her helm to take a drink. Her form was not the best, tonight. Jaime was doing better than usual.

“I don’t know.”

Jaime did not laugh, and kissed her again. He put his lips to her ear. “Brienne,” he said quietly, pulling her closer, “I mean to separate Cersei from Tommen. You have a quest to fulfill. When you find Sansa, Cersei may be locked in a tower room, or married off, or in exile. Tommen may not be king. Who knows what may happen?

“I want to take Tommen to Casterly Rock. . . Myrcella may not be safe in Dorne anymore. Once I pull Cersei’s claws--, I want to take you home, Brienne.”

They sparred for hours, until they were unsteady as drunks. It was their last night together. If they could not share a bed, they would share this. Jaime bid Brienne goodbye in the privacy of the godswood before walking her back to her chamber. She dumped her cold, sweaty clothes before the fire and was asleep as soon as she was under her blankets.

_I have a lover, yet am still a maid_. As soon as she woke, this strange truth turned round and round in Brienne’s head. What Jaime had done to her body, she was still trying to comprehend. She had seen horses and dogs, and her septa had told her what to expect from a husband, but they had not prepared her for that. Those of her father’s ladies most like to divulge secrets of the bedchamber were the ones she successfully tried hardest to avoid. And she had stayed well away from camp followers except to hire out her washing, determined that no one mistake her for anything but a knight.

Brienne donned clean clothes and her mail hauberk, picking her soiled clothes off the floor and packing them away. After scrubbing her face and neck with cold water, she wrapped her shawl in place. She didn’t think Jaime left any marks, but knew she would be red as a beet when her thoughts turned to the previous night. She put on her new cloak, grabbed her things, and headed for the stables.

 _He wants to take me home!_ She had been too overwhelmed to verbalize a reply when he said so, but Jaime’s words were softly rumbling thunder, heralding a storm. Did he mean to make her his paramour? _Brienne, you deserve a husband_. Or his wife? Hope of a kind she thought dead to her fluttered in her chest. Brienne had imagined taking Jaime to her bed would satisfy her lust; turn him into a sweet memory to warm her on cold nights. Instead, it had made her want him more. Every thought of him stoked her fire.

A number of horses had been taken from the outlawsand brought to Riverrun, including Jaime’s bay palfrey and her own mare. Brienne entered the stall, taking oats from the sack and chewing them as she tended her horse.

And Tommen? _Who knows what may happen?_ Did Jaime mean to be the boy’s kingsguard, or his father? The Lord Commander, or the Lord of Casterly Rock? Or . . . something else? What happened to Lord Regent Tyrell? Would Jaime start a war? End one? Would they live to see each other again? What if she couldn’t find Sansa?

When Podrick appeared, Brienne sent him to help Gendry with his horse while she saddled and loaded her own. The yard was milling with men and horses when she walked up to Jaime and Addam. She was already flushed under her shawl and hood, but she felt herself heat all over when Jaime looked at her. Addam mounted his horse.

“Lady Brienne,” said Jaime.

“Ser Jaime,” said Brienne.

Jaime shooed Podrick away and held her bridle while she mounted. For once, he was at a loss for words. He rested his hand on her ankle and stood by her silently, snowflakes melting in his hair, until the warmth of his grip seeped through Brienne’s boot. Addam’s horse whinnied impatiently, and Jaime looked up.

“Goodbye, my lady,” he said, and slapped her mare’s rump.

Brienne left Riverrun at a gallop, Ser Addam at her heels, Podrick and Gendry trailing behind with the rest of their party. Thoughts of Jaime rode double with her to Maidenpool, bound tightly to her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> When I started, I meant for the story to continue farther, but this has consumed headspace and time that I sorely need for more important projects, and I need to step away from writing until I get those things done. Jaime and Brienne's parting seemed a good place to end. The next part of the story would be of a very different nature, with Jaime sorting out the mess in Kings Landing and Brienne questing in the Vale. I have a few scenes written and hope to get back to it eventually. My original endnote stands, that if/when GRRM's books get published, I may well lose my motivation to continue.
> 
> If you read this as I posted it, and find upon returning to it that some things seem a bit different, they probably are. I lightly edited the work when I finished it. Hopefully, it's not very noticeable. All edits were made to shore up the integrity of the story, or polish the writing a bit. And of course, correct those places where I forgot that Jaime only has one hand. That's surprisingly hard to remember while writing.
> 
> My sincere thanks to everyone who left kudos, and especially to those of you who left comments. I've never done a fan-fiction before, and the comments warmed my heart and provided a lot of motivating encouragement. Thank you again. It's nice to know one's hard work is appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to write more chapters, but it may take me a while. If G.R.R.M. finishes before I do, I'll quit writing and just read TWOW.


End file.
